


I Love the Way You Hold Me

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Awkward Sex, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Eating Disorders, Explicit Consent, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Frottage, Greg is a Good Boyfriend, Greg's turn to meet the parents, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Protective Mycroft, Self-Loathing, basically mycroft objectifies himself because anxiety sucks, body image issues, compulsive exercising, greg and anthea are very worried, greg yells at mummy a bit, mycroft pushing himself in both healthy and unhealthy ways, mycroft's super secret job, past abusive relationship, sort of, very negative language regarding sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Greg meets Mycroft's parents, and Mycroft's work gets complicated.





	1. By My Side You'll Always Be

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles from Hold Me by Jamie Grace.  
> I'm not sure how many chapters this update will be, since I'm not precisely sure how I'm going to transition to the next planned plot point. There might be a bit of a gap in time between updates, but I promise they'll keep happening. Hang in there, guys. And even though I don't generally do it individually, I want to thank everyone who has been commenting. You guys are so sweet, and every time I see a new one in my inbox I can't stop smiling. So thank you. I love you guys, and I'm glad you're loving this series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets the Holmes parents and Mycroft is very stressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this was written before the election results. Thank god France isn't as moronic as America. On a completely unrelated note, I really hope the sex scenes aren't awkward. I'm still pretty new to writing them. And the eating disorder is really prevalent in this chapter, as well as related problems. Read with caution.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

“So,” Gregory murmured. “We’re seeing your parents tomorrow.”

Mycroft paused, hands hesitating in hanging up his suit jacket. “Yes,” he said slowly. Mild anxiety had been simmering on the backburner all evening, but at his boyfriend’s words it intensified, not enough for an anxiety attack but enough that his chest got uncomfortably tight. It was not quite as bad as it had been before meeting Gregory's family, especially considering he had a whole different reason to be worried this time, but it still wasn't pleasant.

Seeing the tension, Gregory patted the bed next to him. The detective was propped up against the pillows, hair wet from the shower and spiking up in all directions (and wasn't that one of Mycroft's favourite looks on him), the top few buttons of his pajamas undone to reveal a slice of his chest and collarbone, the love bite Mycroft had given him earlier only partially obscured by the fabric. Mycroft had felt a bit bad getting Gregory worked up and then sending him to take care of himself in the shower, but it had been a stressful day, both because of the impending visit to his parents and because the French elections were currently a great source of tension at work, and Mycroft hadn't been able to go farther than the enthusiastic (and surprisingly relaxing) snogging he'd given Gregory when his boyfriend had gotten home. Now, he closed the closet door with a soft snap and slipped under the covers next to Gregory. “I'm not going to lie and say I'm not nervous,” Gregory said, “but it'll be fine. I've got you.”

Mycroft tucked himself under Gregory's arm, needing the sense of protection it provided him. Gregory kissed his temple and whispered, “I'm going to give your mother a piece of my mind.”

“I wish you wouldn't,” Mycroft sighed. “Mummy isn't one to back down from an argument. I'd hate to see her destroy you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Gregory said. “I'm sure she's a lovely woman, and while I can definitely see being upset at you for how you handled the Eurus situation, she's still your mother. She needs to get over it.”

“Mummy has never 'gotten over’ anything in her life, from my experience. She once put a restaurant out of business because they served her a few bad clams. Father may be a Holmes by birth, but Mummy is a Holmes by sheer force of will.”

“Glad her children aren't nearly so dramatic,” Gregory teased, and Mycroft blushed, studying his lap. Gregory laced his fingers through Mycroft's and squeezed his hand. “I wanted to ask you something about tomorrow,” he said softly.

“You know you may ask me anything.”

“It's about your eating disorder.”

Mycroft tensed, vaguely aware of how tight his grip on Gregory's hand abruptly became, and he forced himself to relax. “What about it?” he asked in as level a voice as he could manage.

“After what happened with Sherlock, I wanted to ask you first if it's okay to bring up,” Gregory explained. “I know you're not keen on telling her, but if it comes up I don't want to have to lie.”

“Why would it come up?” Mycroft asked tersely.

“Well, Sherlock already knows,” Gregory said, “and he doesn't have the most tact. Or, I dunno, I'm not saying I'm going to open the conversation with 'By the way, were you aware your son has an eating disorder?’ but if it looks like the conversation might be headed in that direction I'd really like you to be honest about it. I think this is something your family should be aware of.”

Mycroft considered his words carefully, albeit reluctantly, not wanting to outright dismiss them but uneasy at the idea of having to tell Mummy. Odds were, it would lead to a conversation about university and the various struggles of that period of his life, and it was one more massive item to add to the list of Mycroft's flaws in Mummy's eyes. Sherlock, the wonder child, could do no wrong even when he was high as a kite and ruining his life, but every one of Mycroft's decisions faced harsh scrutiny by the Holmes matriarch.

As the silence stretched on, Gregory squeezed his hand again, “You still with me, love?”

“I can't tell her, Gregory,” Mycroft said, very quietly. “Tomorrow will be difficult enough without adding that to the mess.”

Gregory was visibly disappointed, his face falling, and Mycroft looked away, trying to hide the shame curling in his stomach. But Gregory could read him as no one else could, and let go of his hand, cupping Mycroft's chin and turning his head gently to look him in the eye. “If you're not ready, then you're not ready,” Gregory told him. “You shouldn't feel bad about it.”

“Shouldn't, perhaps,” Mycroft responded, “but that has little bearing on my emotions.”

“At least you have emotions. You're not nearly as repressed as you were when we met.”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft murmured. The once-familiar mantra tasted bitter on his tongue. “What a fool I was.”

“Don't get me wrong,” Gregory said, “you could stand to care a little less about some things. Like what your mother thinks, for example. But you wouldn't be the man I fell in love with if you were some emotionless robot.”

“I love you too, my darling. More than words can possibly express.”

“I know,” Gregory grinned at him. “Sap.” He slipped down, settling on his side and drawing the bedclothes up. He patted the space next to him, “Come on, love. We’ll need plenty of sleep to face your parents.”

Mycroft obligingly lay down and Gregory promptly plastered himself against Mycroft's back, spooning him and nuzzling into his hair. In short order, his boyfriend was fast asleep, his breathing calm and even on the back of Mycroft's neck, but Mycroft stared at the clock a while longer, watching the numbers change, until a fitful sleep finally dragged him under.

He woke up, mercifully spared from nightmares by a dreamless darkness, to the morning sun and his boyfriend's erection pressed against his arse. It was far from an unfamiliar sensation, given how long they'd been sleeping in the same bed, but generally Mycroft ignored it. In the early days of their relationship, it had embarrassed Gregory horribly, but Mycroft understand basic bodily functions and so hadn't been quite as skittish in that regard as he was with his boyfriend getting hard in other scenarios. Still, it had been good that he usually got up well before Gregory did. He suspected his reaction would have been much different if he had to deal with it while Gregory was conscious.

Today, however, Mycroft turned in Gregory's grip, wondering if the relaxed sensation he'd enjoyed the previous night could expand to the current situation. He hesitantly slid his hand down his boyfriend's chest. Well before he reached his destination, Gregory's hand came up to cover Mycroft's, pressing it gently against his abdomen and stopping its descent, and without opening his eyes Gregory said, “Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Hands off.”

Mycroft was surprised at the unfamiliar pet name, but then, Gregory looked to still be half asleep. “Why?” he asked softly.

“Because,” Gregory said, his voice losing some of the roughness of sleep as he blinked his brown eyes open at Mycroft, “I’m not in the mood this morning. And I have a feeling that you really aren’t either.” He scooted out from under the covers, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead, “I’m going to the loo. I’ll be right back.”

Mycroft watched him go, propping himself up by the elbow. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he sighed and stretched out to reach it. It was Anthea, as expected, updating him on the proceedings at work.

Gregory returned, dropping back onto the bed. Seeing the phone in Mycroft’s hand, he asked, “Do you have to go save the world?”

Part of Mycroft was tempted to say yes, he was needed, he had to go into the office and fix whatever his moderately competent associates had broken, but he couldn’t run from his family forever. He replaced the phone face-down on the nightstand and shook his head, “It’s mostly out of my hands at this point, I’m afraid. There is only so much that I can do.” His throat felt smaller than usual, making breathing a bit more difficult.

Gregory scanned his face, brow furrowed, and then said gently, “How ‘bout I go make us some breakfast?”

“Something light,” Mycroft requested, knowing it was going to be a difficult morning.

Gregory nodded, “Alright. Come down when you’re ready, and if I catch you on the treadmill this morning we’re going to have words.” Mycroft swallowed hard and looked away. The exercise compulsion came and went, only making an appearance on the very worst days, the ones where Mycroft felt like his entire world was spinning out of control and he just needed to _do something_. It had been worse when the eating disorder had been about weight, and while that aspect had never disappeared entirely it had faded with time, and now, while Mycroft did still exercise on occasion for health reasons (because really, his job consisted mostly of sitting around all day, and that was hardly healthy), the need to do it compulsively was almost non-existent. The past week, however, had been particularly trying, and Mycroft had been itching to get back on the treadmill. With some difficulty, he had explained the situation to Gregory, who naturally had been supportive and helped him keep the worst of it under control, mainly by directing said control to other, less pressing but still productive matters.

Gregory was hovering in the doorway, and Mycroft realized he expected a response. “I’ll be down in a moment,” he said, avoiding the other half of the statement, and Gregory accepted it and disappeared down the hall.

Slowly, Mycroft got out of bed. He hesitated by the dresser, rapping his knuckles lightly on the wood in contemplation, and then moved to the closet. Definitely not a day where he could afford to dress down. His suits were like battle armour; if he looked put together on the outside, he could pretend that the inside matched. Once his suit had been donned, he stared at his reflection in the mirror for longer than he probably should have, eyeing himself critically, unable to stop his mind from cataloguing the notable imperfections in his appearance. He smoothed down creases, adjusted his tie, and stared into his own eyes, but the still figure blinking back at him didn’t match the turmoil Mycroft felt boiling inside. He couldn’t shake the unease that settled like a familiar coat about his shoulders and chest, trailing down into the pit of his stomach. He twisted sideways, one hand on his stomach, and his jaw clenched to the point of near-pain at the image reflected back at him. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a slow breath, and then resolutely stalked from the room without so much as glancing at the mirror.

The smell coming from the kitchen was far from overpowering, but it made Mycroft’s stomach coil into knots anyway, and the sizzling sound of eggs in the pan made him want to cry. He took a seat on one of the stools at the island, his fingers curling into fists on the stone surface. Gregory glanced over at him, and then paused and really looked. “You okay?” he asked.

Mycroft took a deep breath, shuddering. “Ask me again later.”

Gregory pulled the pan off the burner and set it aside. He walked over to Mycroft, leaning over the island between them and placing his hands on top of Mycroft's. “If today is really that bad-” he began.

Mycroft shook his head, cutting Gregory off. He managed a moderately sincere smile, “There are times when we all must do things we don’t wish to.”

“Maybe, but we aren’t all going to relapse or have a panic attack because of it.” There was a great deal of worry in Gregory’s voice.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Mycroft turned his hands under Gregory’s so their palms met, relaxing the fists and stroking his thumb over the pulse point in Gregory’s wrist. His heartbeat gradually slowed to match his boyfriend’s, and Mycroft murmured, “We’re going, Gregory.” He used the voice he usually reserved for stubborn, bought politicians used to getting their way. It left no room for argument.

Gregory sighed. “If, at any point, you feel like you need a break-”

“I’ve never had an anxiety attack in front of my family before, and I don’t intend to start now,” Mycroft said. “I know my limits and I know all the tricks for leaving the room without garnering suspicion.”

“I really hate that,” Gregory mumbled. “You shouldn’t have to know how to hide how you’re feeling.”

“We were brought up very differently, my darling,” Mycroft responded, although it hadn’t sounded like Gregory was speaking to him. He cleared his throat, which did nothing to alleviate the tightness of his breathing, and changed the subject, “Did you want to eat?”

“Right,” Gregory said. “Right.” Reluctantly, he released Mycroft’s hands and moved back to the counter, just in time to rescue the toast as it popped out of the toaster. Over his shoulder, he said, “I took the yolk out of the eggs. I know it’s easier for you to eat them without it.” A moment later, he rounded the island to take a seat on Mycroft’s left, sliding a plate in front of him. On it there was a single slice of toast, which Mycroft was grateful to see hadn’t been slathered with butter or jam, and a small serving of egg whites. Even so, his stomach rebelled at the thought of consuming it. He stared down at the plate, lips pursed in a thin line.

Mycroft startled when he felt Gregory take his hand. His boyfriend hadn’t touched his own plate, which looked much the same, excepting that he had a larger serving of eggs and two slices of toast with both butter and jam. Gregory pushed his plate to the side and wrapped both of his large, warm hands around Mycroft’s left. Mycroft recognized the gesture with a hint of embarrassment and guilt. They’d done this once before, on a different bad day, and while Mycroft had initially thrown up his shields, forcing indignation at having his hand held like a child while he ate, he had conceded when tears had welled up in his eyes, and the comforting contact and Gregory’s quiet murmurs of encouragement had been the only reason he’d been able to eat at all that day. This time, there was no indignation. Mycroft accepted the gesture, gripping Gregory’s hand so tightly it probably hurt, and picked up his fork.

“One bite at a time, love,” Gregory murmured. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Slowly and methodically, Mycroft picked tiny bites, his plate gradually starting to empty. Each swallow felt a little easier than the last, his throat opening up although his chest remained tight. He drew in shaky breaths between each bite, and his grip on the fork turned his knuckles an even paler white with the force of it, but eventually his plate was clear. Gregory kept one hand on Mycroft’s, but he freed the other one to stroke back Mycroft’s hair, and he leaned in to kiss Mycroft’s temple. Mycroft turned his head in to tuck it against Gregory’s shoulder, aware his whole body was trembling with the effort of holding back sobs.

“You did so well, love,” Gregory whispered into his hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

Mycroft pushed himself away from Gregory, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, ignoring the wet stain forming at the cuff. “You should eat,” he muttered.

Gregory said nothing, but finished his own plate much more quickly than Mycroft had. Mycroft used the opportunity to close his eyes, focusing on relaxing his body and evening out his breathing. When Gregory finished, Mycroft said, “I’ll take care of the plates while you get ready.” Gregory smoothed his hand over Mycroft’s shoulder in silent support as he stood up, and Mycroft leaned into the contact slightly. Then Gregory left the room without a word.

In short order, they were ready to leave. A few days ago, Gregory had offered to drive them, rather than having to call one of Mycroft’s cars, with the logic that that way, they wouldn’t have to send a driver back and forth on the trip and he wouldn’t have to wait around for hours. Mycroft had considered arguing that Gregory had described the driver’s job, but he hadn’t cared enough to push the subject. If Gregory wanted to be behind the wheel of a car for two and a half hours each way (give or take, depending on traffic), then Mycroft wasn’t going to stop him, and Mycroft Holmes did not take the train.

It was strange, getting into the passenger seat rather than the back, but Mycroft felt safe with Gregory next to him, even if the windows weren’t tinted or bulletproof. He had his umbrella, fingers curled tightly around the handle, and when Gregory had navigated them out of the city he let go of the wheel with one hand to rest it on Mycroft’s knee. The contact balanced out the tension as London disappeared and they headed west.

It was nearing lunchtime when they pulled up in front of Mycroft’s parents’ house. Although they could have afforded bigger, the small dwelling was cosy, and his parents insisted that they didn’t need any more space, especially considering the frequent trips they took. “Why buy a big house if you’re never there to live in it?” as his father said. Gregory parked the car and looked over at Mycroft. “You ready?” he asked.

Mycroft’s body was solidly considering depositing his breakfast all over the pavement. In spite of it, he nodded and climbed out of the car. Gregory took his hand, and they strode up the front walk together.

Mycroft pushed the door open without ringing the bell, John's voice suddenly audible and rising in laughter as he said, “And I swear to god, he turned around and in the absolute _snarkiest_ voice you could imagine he said, 'two fathers can't be any worse for my daughter than a house of rampant alcoholics and one father having multiple affairs will be for your son.’ I honestly think she would’ve started screaming at us if it hadn't been her stop.”

“Taking Sherlock on a train is a challenge in and of itself,” Mycroft said smoothly to announce their presence, proud that his voice didn’t waver.

Five heads turned towards the door; John and Sherlock were pressed together on the couch, while Mummy and Father each occupied their own chair. Mummy had Rosie on her lap, and the toddler squealed excitedly, calling out “My! Geg!” and clapping her hands.

“Hello, Rosie,” Mycroft responded, smiling at her to avoid looking at anyone else. Gregory's grip on his hand got a little tighter, and Mycroft managed to raise his head to look his mother in the eye. Her lips were drawn in a tight line.

“This must be your partner,” she said.

“This is Gregory,” Mycroft confirmed.

Gregory nodded and said respectfully, “It's a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He glanced at Mycroft's father and inclined his head, “Sir.”

Mummy stood up, handing Rosie to John as she passed them, and approached where Mycroft and Gregory stood in the entryway. She stopped a few feet away from them, a completely neutral expression on her face. Watching her, it would be clear to anyone who knew him that Mycroft had learned his from the best. She studied Gregory for a moment, getting a read on him, and Gregory shifted nervously under her gaze. Then she held out her hand, “Violet Holmes.” Gregory let go of Mycroft's hand to shake hers carefully, and she grasped his tightly, trapping him in her grip, “How long have you been seeing my son?”

“Just-just over three months.” Mycroft had never seen Gregory _intimidated_ before, but if anyone could provoke that reaction in the detective inspector, it was Violet Holmes.

“Before or after that fiasco of his?” she asked.

Gregory's jaw set into a hard line, “After.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, giving him a shrewd look, “I wonder what that says about your character?”

“Violet, dear, don't antagonize him,” Father said with a weary sigh.

As per usual when he disagreed with her, Mummy ignored him. “What sort of a man are you, Gregory?”

“Lestrade is-”

“I can speak for myself, Sherlock,” Gregory interrupted him. He squared his shoulders and faced Mummy head on. Mycroft held his breath. “I'm a police officer, which means I've seen the worst in people. And god knows I'm not perfect, but after seeing so much bad in the world, I try to put a little good back into it. And part of that is loving your son, because on his own he would probably work himself to death, and this world is a lot better with him in it.”

Mummy raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You're honest,” she said. “That's good. We could use a little more honesty around here.” She released his hand.

Gregory looked like he wanted to retort at the obvious jab, but Mycroft shot him a pleading look and his boyfriend closed his mouth. On the sofa, John fidgeted uncomfortably. Rosie babbled, unaware of the adults’ tension.

“Well? Sit down,” Mummy gestured to the couch.

Gregory glanced at Mycroft, who nodded once, and they stepped into the room and sank onto the couch opposite John and Sherlock. Rosie reached out for Mycroft, who looked to John to make sure it was okay before he accepted her into his arms. She tugged on his tie curiously and chirped, “My.”

Mummy settled into her wingback again like a queen descending on her throne. She crossed her legs primly, hands folded in her lap, and said, “You haven't called.”

“You requested I not contact you,” Mycroft pointed out, feeling braver with Gregory by his side and Rosie in his lap. “You asked something impossible of me, and said that I should not call you until I made it possible. You can hardly fault me for-”

“Sherlock believes it to be possible,” she interrupted.

And there was the crux of their rivalry, Mycroft thought bitterly. Sherlock's distrust and dislike of Mycroft may have spawned in feelings of abandonment when Mycroft left for school, but sibling competition had been spurred on by their mother since childhood. Perhaps it was unintentional, considering how snappish she got whenever they fought, but she pitted them against each other nonetheless. “Sherlock has only recently remembered Eurus. And he does not hold the same sort of position I do. He has no ideas of the inner workings of government.” Mycroft glanced at his brother, who was trying to hide a hurt look, and amended the statement, “I fear he is as blind to the truth of the situation as I was.”

“That’s why I asked you to be here,” Sherlock said. “I told you I had an idea. You know Eurus better than anyone. Well...anyone living. If there is a person who could determine if it would work, that person would be you.”

“And I’m sure it’s a clever idea, but I cannot in good conscious allow _anyone_ access to Eurus, particularly with the intent to communicate with her. You and John know first-hand what she can do.”

“But she’s not like that now,” Sherlock argued. “She’s unresponsive, not angry anymore.”

“She wasn’t angry to begin with. She feels nothing, Sherlock. She is curious, nothing more. She does not understand love or hate or anger or sorrow. I monitored her while she was at Sherrinford; I witnessed how she reacted to others. We are nothing more than puppets for her to play with, lab rats to experiment on-”

“That’s quite enough, Mike,” Mummy snapped. “I won’t have you speaking about my daughter that way.”

Mycroft bit his tongue, the nausea rearing up again. When she was quite certain Mycroft wouldn’t talk back to her, Mummy turned back to Sherlock, “If you have an idea on how to communicate with her, I want to hear it. I want to see my daughter, Sherlock, your sister. Whatever it takes. You’re the one I know I can count on.”

That stung more than Mycroft cared to admit. He knew Gregory had picked up on it, because his boyfriend tensed next to him, his hand reaching out to find Mycroft’s again. Mycroft let him take it, shifting Rosie so she was propped up by his other arm. It was better than Gregory retorting and finding himself on the receiving end of Mummy’s sharp tongue. Mycroft would take a thousand lashings from her before he let her say one cruel word to Gregory.

Sherlock hesitated in responding, looking at Mycroft as if waiting for permission. When Mycroft remained passive, too busy keeping his expression blank in order to prevent himself from hyperventilating to encourage his brother, Sherlock addressed the room at large. “I was thinking about music,” he said. “Eurus...she wanted me to play the violin for her. It was how we connected best as children, and there is a certain delicacy to music that transcends spoken language.’

“What are you suggesting?” Mycroft managed to ask.

“If Eurus truly has passed beyond our understanding, music may be the only way to reach her. Give her a violin and let me try to play with her. That may be the closest thing to a conversation she is capable of having.”

“We don't want her having _conversations_ ,” Mycroft said.

“ _Think_ about it, Mycroft. You're behaving irrationally because you fear her, and with good reason, but just think about it for two seconds.”

So Mycroft did. He paused everything, forcing his anxiety away so it would not distract him and knowing it would just redouble in a moment anyway. He considered Sherlock's words, echoing in his ears. Eurus did not speak. That made her…safe. Could she be safe to be around? Surely the risk was too great...but no, the violin was not the same as words...but music could move just as much as words...but if he did not give in, his mother would never forgive him and Sherlock would find a way in without Mycroft's help. This way, Mycroft could control the situation.

As his mind stuttered to a halt on that thought, everything else crashed back into focus like a kaleidoscope shattering. He sucked in a short breath, collecting himself, and then said, “You would be monitored at all times.”

“Naturally.”

“And you would have to make multiple visits to prove your belief valid and the scenario safe.”

“Of course.”

“And at the first sign that Eurus is not as unresponsive as we believe, that she is capable of manipulating you-”

“The visits cease,” Sherlock finished. “I'd expect nothing less.”

“Then I will look into it,” Mycroft said. “I cannot promise anything, mind you. I am not able to make this decision on my own. Other people must be contacted to approve it.”

“How long will that take?” Mummy asked eagerly.

“I anticipate at least two weeks to get it approved or denied, and then no less than another month of Sherlock visiting her alone before we can determine if other visitors are possible.” This was the easy part. Mycroft knew government channels like the back of his hand. If it was just paperwork being shuffled, just a question of logistics and signatures, he wouldn't have to think too hard about what he was agreeing to. It was the same tactic he employed when less than savoury decisions were made for the government, usually as a concession to push something more important through. In a way, this was exactly the same.

Mummy settled back, clearly pleased. “Well then,” she said, “an apology would still be nice, but at least you're making the effort to fix your mistake, Mikey.”

“Hang on,” Gregory protested, unable to help the outburst, “that's not fair.”

Mycroft stared at him, wide-eyed, and he wasn't the only one. Sherlock looked startled and John blinked in surprise. Mummy arched an eyebrow at the policeman. Gregory swallowed hard, glancing at Mycroft before he said, “With all due respect, ma’am, I don't think you're being fair to Mycroft. He shouldn't have to apologize for doing his best.”

“His best?” Mummy scoffed. “Dear boy, if doing his best means preventing his parents from seeing their daughter and lying to them about her death, then I'd hate to see him doing his worst.”

“Eurus may be your daughter, but she’s also a psychopath capable of manipulating people into killing themselves and others. She terrorized Sherlock and Mycroft when they were kids. She _burned down your house_. And maybe Mycroft should have told you, maybe he made a few mistakes, but for god's sake, he was twelve years old when he was entrusted with a job that most adults wouldn’t be able to handle!”

“This is not the sort of secret-”

“I’m not saying it was right!” Gregory’s voice rose the way it did when he was passionate about something. “I’m saying he _tried_. And I don’t think there’s anyone else, in this room, in this country, on this planet, who could have made a better decision if they had been in his place.” Mummy looked outraged at being interrupted, and a large part of Mycroft wanted to stop Gregory before he upset her any more and incurred her wrath, but a larger part still was touched that, for the first time he could remember, someone was standing up to his mother on his behalf, not in the half-hearted way Sherlock had tried once or twice, but passionately and with complete faith in Mycroft. Gregory continued before anyone else could say anything, “Mycroft tries harder than anyone I’ve ever met to please the people he cares about. He played the villain for Sherlock because Sherlock needed an antagonist to blame for all his problems. He does everything in his power to protect you, to keep you safe, and to make you proud. He practically trips over himself trying to figure out what I want from him so he can give it to me without even thinking about how he feels. He tries and he tries and he tries and it’s still not fucking enough for you. Christ, he told me you called Sherlock the adult between the two of them. Do you have a fucking clue what Sherlock’s been doing with his life? I’ve had to haul him into the station for so many different charges it's not even funny, and it seems like every other year he’s back on drugs. And you know who’s there every fucking time? Mycroft. He bails Sherlock out and he erases his record and he gets Sherlock help, gets him clean even if it means breaking the law or trying to bribe people in his life.” He paused in his tirade, glancing over at Sherlock, who inclined his head, as if acknowledging that what Gregory was saying, if a bit harsh on Sherlock, was true, which prompted Gregory to keep going, “Mycroft has had to lock his sister up for the safety of the world. He’s had to fight his brother just to keep Sherlock alive. He’s had to face his own demons by himself because none of you cared enough to see that something was fucking wrong, and he has to deal everyday with knowing that his own mother wants to call him useless and stupid because he happened to make one mistake that was in such a grey area that it might not even have been a mistake in the first place. I get that you’re upset with his decision. That’s fine. Be upset. But for fuck’s sake, stop treating your own son like garbage because he’s not perfect enough for you. Sherlock’s not perfect, but you seem to think he can do no wrong. Eurus is a fucking murderer and a psychopath and you still love her and want to visit her in her _maximum security prison_. So why the hell can’t you forgive Mycroft?”

The room was silent, save for Gregory’s breathing, which was a little faster than normal as he gulped in air to make up for what he lost in ranting. Even Rosie was silent, staring at Gregory with huge blue eyes. Mycroft could hear his heart pounding in his ears. When he couldn’t take it any longer, he broke the silence, clearing his throat and saying quietly, “I don’t think John and Sherlock appreciate you swearing in front of their daughter, Gregory.”

Sherlock didn’t look like he cared, but John nodded in agreement. Mummy was still as a statue, stunned beyond words. Father looked surprised, but he waited for his wife to make the first move.

After a very long pause, Mummy said, “No one has ever spoken to me like that before.” There was a quiet power behind her words, and Mycroft flinched, fearing what might come next.

Gregory looked pale, but he didn’t back down, staring defiantly at Mycroft’s mother in a way Mycroft had never dared to. “I’ll apologize for the swearing,” he said sharply, “but I’m not going to apologize for anything else.”

“You misunderstand,” Mummy said. “I am not asking for an apology.” Her eyes flicked to Mycroft, and then back to Gregory. “You love my son.”

“More than anything in this world.”

“You were willing to risk me not approving of you, rejecting your relationship out of anger, for the sake of defending him.”

“No offense, but I don’t really give a-” Gregory glanced at Rosie, “crap if you approve of me or not. I love Mycroft, and he loves me, and that doesn’t change if you decide you hate me. But no one defends Mycroft, and he doesn’t defend himself against you, and I’m not about to allow him to get hurt because of what you think.”

Mummy pursed her lips. Then she let out a short chuckle. Mycroft frowned, glancing around the room. Sherlock looked at perplexed as he did, and John looked completely lost, as usual. Gregory seemed stunned, like he had braced for a return fire and hadn’t fully grasped that it wasn’t coming. Mummy leaned back in her chair and tapped the corner of her lip with her index finger, still laughing softly. “This is quite the belated Mother’s Day gift, Mike. Sherlock brought me a granddaughter, and you brought me your new boyfriend, complete with protective ranting.”

“I’m sorry,” Gregory said, confused, “are you not angry at me?”

“Well, I was,” Mummy said, “but the fact that you are willing to put Mycroft’s well-being ahead of your best interests tells me that you are a man of integrity. And that means that you really believe everything you’ve said to me.” She shifted, propping her elbow on the armrest of her chair and resting her chin on her hand, “I’m a strong enough woman to know when criticism is warranted. I have a reputation for being overbearing in my opinions, and that much is true, but perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have been a bit unfair to my son. Emotions do tend to cloud rational thinking and I have been very, _very_ angry with Mycroft.”

“So…” Gregory seemed a little braver when he said, “Don’t you think you’re the one who owes Mycroft an apology?”

“Don’t push your luck, Gregory dear.” Mummy stood up, “Now. Why don’t I go make us some tea? John? Be a dear and come help.”

“Yes ma’am,” John snapped to attention, jumping to his feet and following the Holmes matriarch out of the room.

Mycroft chanced a look at Father, who was watching him from his armchair. When he saw Mycroft looking he said gently, “Your mother has not been herself as of late. I believe finding out our daughter was alive upset her more than she tries to let on. She will forgive you, Mycroft. But it will take time.”

“And you?” Mycroft hardly dared to ask. It felt like all the air had gone from the room.

He smiled ruefully, “I forgave you before we left the meeting where you told us Eurus was alive. But your mother is a force of nature, and I find it difficult to argue with her. I’m sorry. I know you must have been hurting terribly over this.”

“No more than she is, I imagine,” Mycroft said, although he wasn’t sure that was true. He looked towards the doorway she had disappeared through. For once in his life, Sherlock remained silent, staring at his lap.

His father was no genius, but he was very astute. “I’m glad you have Gregory, Mycroft. He seems like he’ll be very good for you, and it would be nice to see you smile again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gregory said.

Father waved a hand, “Call me Siger, please.”

Gregory smiled at him, and Mycroft felt some of the tension in his chest ease. He leaned into Gregory’s shoulder, and Gregory turned that smile towards him.

Mummy bustled back into the room with a tea tray, John at her heels with a platter of tiny sandwiches and pastries. Gregory nudged Mycroft gently in the side, “Why don’t you hand Rosie back to Sherlock?” There was an underlying depth to his tone that Mycroft realized was a subtle hint.

He hesitantly passed his niece off to his brother, who accepted her with no complaint, bouncing her in his lap and making her coo, “Da! More!”

“How do you take your tea, Gregory?” Mummy asked.

“Just plain,” he answered. Mycroft knew Gregory wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but he suspected his boyfriend didn’t want to risk doing anything else to upset Mummy after getting off so easily.

“Good for you,” she approved, handing him a cup. “Mycroft and Sherlock put too much sugar in theirs. I’m surprised their teeth haven’t rotted right out of their heads, what with the sweet tooth they have. Of course, Mikey’s always dieting these days, so it’s always artificial sweetener for him.” She handed Mycroft his cup, which he accepted gratefully. Gregory gave him a pointed but questioning look, and Mycroft gave the tiniest shake of his head. He wasn’t going to say anything to his mother about his “dieting” or lack thereof. His stomach had turned over uneasily at the sight of food, and while tea felt safe, it would take some effort to consume even one of the finger sandwiches, much less a pastry.

John took the cup Mummy handed him and agreed, “It would have saved me so much hassle living with Sherlock if I’d known he could be bribed with sweets sooner. He’s a terrible influence on Rosie with it, too. Let’s her have whatever she wants.”

“I do not.” Sherlock’s cross reply was directly contradicted by the fact that he had snatched a biscuit off the plate and Rosie was gnawing on half of it.

“Face it, brother mine,” Mycroft said. “She has you wrapped around her finger.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all. Parenthood suits you.” He held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, ensuring Sherlock understood he was being sincere without having to touch too closely on _feelings_. Mycroft and Sherlock had an understanding now; they would always be a bit at odds with each other, but never again would Sherlock intentionally cast Mycroft as the villain in his story. On occasion the antagonist, perhaps, but never the villain.

Subtly, while Mummy entertained John with what Sherlock had been like as a child (“There wasn’t a locked cupboard he couldn’t get into. If she’s interested in science, I hope your daughter leans more towards mathematics than chemistry.”), Gregory took one of the finger sandwiches and placed it in Mycroft’s free hand. Mycroft looked at him, pleading, but Gregory just murmured, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “Please eat it. I’m just asking for one, love.” Hesitantly, Mycroft nibbled on the corner of it, and when his stomach didn’t reject it, he took a small bite. Gregory smiled and linked his ankle with Mycroft’s the way he liked to at home.

“Did Sherlock really pretend to be part of your staff for a _week_?” John asked, incredulous. “I can barely get him to do housework at all.”

“Well, he didn’t do much in the way of cleaning,” Mummy laughed. “He was, oh, I think it was about eight years old, and he had this adorable disguise to try and look like one of the housekeeper’s boys, she had three of them, easy to get lost in the shuffle, and Sherlock spent an entire week pretending. He called himself Basil, if I recall correctly. Of course, we all went along with it. Better than the time he nearly ruined my flowerbeds trying to determine if soil composition changed the deeper he went. Although that might just have been an excuse to dig holes in the yard.”

“Do you have pictures?” Gregory asked, and Mycroft nearly choked on the last bite of his sandwich. “I’d love to see Sherlock and Mycroft as kids.”

“It just so happens I have a photo album,” Mummy said, pleased. “Siger? Be a dear and fetch it for me, please?”

“You wish is my command,” he stood up and swept into a teasing bow before going off to do as she asked.

Sherlock shot Gregory a betrayed look, but Gregory paid him no mind. He whispered into Mycroft’s ear, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of you, ‘specially not as a kid.”

“With good reason,” Mycroft said tensely.

Gregory frowned at him, “What?”

“Was there a part of ‘I hate my appearance’ that was confusing for you?” Mycroft hadn’t meant to snap, but he hadn’t been able to help it. Fortunately, no one else was paying attention to them.

“Love, you got to see all the delightful pictures my mum has of me as a kid, and I know they made me look ridiculous and awkward. This just evens the playing field.” He kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “Besides, I really want to see some embarrassing photos of Sherlock. I can always use blackmail material when he’s being a prat on my crime scenes.”

Father returned with the photo album, and Mycroft’s insides twisted. Mummy accepted it, laying it on her lap, and Gregory pressed one more kiss to Mycroft’s cheek before joining John in hovering around her chair. Mycroft hesitated, and then set his teacup on the table and joined them anxiously. Sherlock was the only one who remained seated, feigning being more interested in Rosie than anything else, although Mycroft saw him steal glances in their direction.

From the very first page, Mycroft wanted to reach around Gregory, slam the book shut, throw it outside, and set it on fire. There weren't many photos prior to Sherlock's fifth birthday, as most had been destroyed when Eurus had set fire to the house, putting Mycroft at his most unsightly age in the earliest. There were one or two of him as a young child, but the vast majority began at puberty. Mycroft had been proportionally at his heaviest then, a combination of unfortunate developing hormones and the stress of nearly dying at the hands of his little sister, whose life he had to keep a secret from the rest of his family. While Sherlock’s high cheekbones and wild, curly hair suited him in a look that was part regal, part cherubic, Mycroft hadn't yet grown into his body, still short and pudgy and by far the less attractive sibling.

Gregory wrapped an arm around Mycroft waist and pointed with his other hand, “What's that from?” He was referring to a picture towards the bottom of the page, where Mycroft stood alone, wearing an unflattering school uniform (although at that age nothing had been flattering on Mycroft) and holding a slightly blurry object awkwardly tucked under one arm. His express was sullen; he was glaring at the camera.

Mummy answered, “That would be from Mycroft's debate team championships. Mikey did hate to socialize, but he was very passionate about debate. He only did the one year, though. Won the first tournament, and said it was a waste of time to continue.”

“Everyone else was a moron,” Mycroft mumbled bitterly. “It was hardly a fair fight.”

Gregory squeezed his hip lightly, “I should have guessed you did debate. Although I had you pegged more as a water polo type.”

“Oh, we couldn't get him into sports at all,” Mummy said idly, turning the page. “Not even fencing. Two lessons, that's all he would do. I think it’s part of the reason he put on so much weight as a child; never exercising.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, and Gregory gave him a reassuring look, even as Mummy continued, “Of course, it was Sherlock we really despaired of. We couldn't get him to sit still most of the time. Always dashing about, poking at something or other. Getting his clothes covered in dirt and blood and all sorts of things. And when he wasn't doing that, he was making a mess of the library, spreading books out everywhere and not leaving for days.”

“That sounds about right,” John laughed. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

Mummy hesitated, and then admitted, “We were very pleased when Mycroft went into government. I’ve always worried Sherlock was wasting his talents.”

“I’m not suited to working with people as Mycroft does,” Sherlock said from his position on the sofa. “He at least can pretend they don’t bore him. I don’t have the patience for it.”

“You can sit for twenty-four hours straight watching a house for a case, but you can’t spend two minutes making small talk,” John returned. “It’s not that you don’t have patience, it’s just that you don’t care to apply it to other people.”

“I’m patient with Rosie,” Sherlock pouted at his partner.

“And thank god for that,” John muttered, and Mycroft held in a chuckle. John’s affectionate exasperation with Sherlock was beyond Mycroft’s understanding, but it suited them.

Mummy turned the page again, and Gregory burst out laughing, “Why does Sherlock have Christmas ornaments in his hair?”

Mycroft leaned over to look at the picture too and smirked. Sherlock appeared to be about ten or eleven years old, and he did indeed have a handful of shiny Christmas baubles dangling from his curls, as well as a string of garland wrapped around his neck like a scarf (or more accurately, like a feather boa) and a hideous Christmas sweater with blinking lights. Mummy chuckled, and Sherlock scowled. “I have no idea why we have that picture,” she said. “I honestly can’t remember. Sherlock, do you?”

“I certainly would have deleted such nonsense from my memory.”

Mycroft remembered. It had been his last Christmas home with his family before he’d gone off to university. He hadn’t gone home the first year, wanting to celebrate with the friends he’d had for the first time, as an adult. And after that…

He cleared his throat, pushing back the memories, “If I’m not much mistaken, he lost a bet. We were playing chess.”

“Ah, right,” Mummy exclaimed. “Oh, he was so cocky at that age. I couldn’t believe he and Mikey were brothers sometimes, Mike was always so quiet.”

Gregory had taken out his phone and snapped a picture, grinning broadly. He wiggled his phone at Sherlock, “Next time you decide to be a pain at one of my crime scenes, I’m sending this picture to Anderson and Donovan.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh yes I would.” Gregory smirked at him. “You willing to take that chance?”

After that, there was more skimming the photo album, Gregory occasionally taking pictures with his phone. Mycroft relaxed somewhat as he began to disappear from the photos, although the twinge in his gut of remembering why he was absent made him press his forehead against Gregory’s shoulder, seeking comfort in his boyfriend’s embrace. Gregory slid his hand from Mycroft’s waist to stroke his back soothingly. Eventually, Mummy shut the book, “Well, I think that’s enough of that.” She glanced at the clock on the mantle, “Goodness, it’s nearly dinnertime.”

Mycroft straightened up, “Gregory and I should probably take our leave. We do have a long drive home, and I’d hate to impose-”

“Nonsense,” Mummy waved off his concern. “I didn’t get so much as a phone call on Mother’s Day, and it’s rare enough to have both my boys in the same room, so the least you can do is stay for dinner. I’ll get started on it now. Gregory, are you any good in the kitchen?”

“I do most of the cooking at home, so I’d say I’m pretty good.” He glanced down at Mycroft, “You okay with staying a while longer?”

Mycroft got the feeling that if he said no, Gregory would leave, regardless of Mummy’s feelings on the matter. But Mycroft didn’t want to cause a scene, so he said, “That is acceptable.”

“Excellent,” Mummy said. She marched towards the kitchen, and Gregory dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s lips before following her.

John settled on the couch next to Sherlock again, taking Rosie from his partner. Mycroft nodded once at his father, who returned the gesture and said nothing when Mycroft wandered down the hall. He slipped out the front door, the house too confining all of a sudden, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket when it buzzed.

Everything seems to be holding up on this end, sir. - A

Mycroft sighed in relief. It was too soon to know for certain, but Anthea had good judgement. He texted back:

It will be over shortly. Whatever the outcome, we will deal with it. - MH

And you? How are you doing? - A

I’m fine, as always. - MH

Does your mother like Greg? - A

I believe so. She certainly respects him, which I believe is far more important. - MH

Is he making sure you eat? - A

Professionalism, please, Anthea. - MH

As your PA, it’s my job to make sure you don’t collapse in our country’s time of need. Even if it means making sure your boyfriend is feeding you. :) - A

Touché. - MH

Gregory is a saint, as always. - MH

And you are far more than just my PA. - MH

Don’t I know it? :) - A

Mycroft chuckled quietly. Although Anthea’s official position was as Mycroft’s personal assistant, official titles meant very little in their line of work. She was a bright woman, clever and capable, and the only one Mycroft trusted to cover for him when he was unavailable. Assuming she didn’t move on to bigger and better things before he retired, she would make an excellent replacement for him.

“Cigarette?” Sherlock offered in his deep baritone, closing the front door behind him. He held the proffered object in Mycroft’s direction.

Mycroft slipped his phone back into his pocket and shook his head. “I’m quitting. I promised Gregory.”

Rather than light it himself, Sherlock put the cigarette back in his pocket. “Why are you out here, then?”

“It was getting to be a bit much inside,” Mycroft answered honestly. “Mummy is…”

“An overwhelming force of nature,” Sherlock finished for him.

“Quite.”

“Lestrade handled her well.”

“Yes, he did.”

“So you’re not going to tell her?”

“Tell her what?” Mycroft feigned ignorance, even as Sherlock turned his keen eyes on him.

“So you aren’t, then,” Sherlock said. “How long do you think you can hide it from her, Mycroft?”

“I hid it from you for years, Sherlock, I think I can handle keeping Mummy from finding out.” It didn’t feel the same as discussing it with Gregory. There, in the safety of their home, Mycroft felt anxious but safe. Like nothing could touch him so long as Gregory was there to hold him. Here, under Sherlock’s intense gaze, Mycroft felt like an exposed wire, his skin tingling and crawling, one touch away from being set off.

Thank goodness Sherlock wasn’t the touchy-feely type.

Mycroft changed the subject, “Do you really believe your plan will work, Sherlock? Do you really think Eurus is capable of making that connection with you?”

“I’m not sure what to think,” Sherlock admitted. “When it comes to Eurus, nothing is expected. That is one thing, I think, we can agree on. But I’m going to...I need to try.” There was a trace of doubt in his voice that unsettled Mycroft.

He opened his mouth, hoping the right words would come out, as they so often did, and then closed it again. Finally, he said, “Sometimes trying is all we can do.”

Sherlock chuckled, looking at the ground, and then up at Mycroft, “You’re getting wise in your old age, brother mine.”

“Middle age, Sherlock. I’m not old yet.”

“Not too old to get it up, at least,” Sherlock smirked. “I see your sex life with Gregory has improved.”

“That’s hardly your business,” Mycroft glared at him. “I don’t ask what you and John get up to. Kindly do me the same courtesy.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips twitched, and they lost their playful look. “He is...he is good to you, isn’t he?”

Mycroft was touched by the concern, but he didn’t show it. He merely nodded, “Very good.”

“I’m glad,” Sherlock said. Then he scoffed, breaking the moment and allowing Mycroft to breathe as the tension snapped, “You spent long enough pining after each other. Disgusting.”

“Oh, like you were any better with John,” Mycroft snarked back.

“Boys?” Gregory’s voice broke into whatever Sherlock had been about to retort. “If you could leave the fighting until after dinner, I’m sure your mother would be very grateful.” He leaned against the doorframe, gesturing them inside.

Dinner wasn’t especially lavish, just the six adults crowded around the table with Rosie in her highchair between John and Sherlock, who spent as much time keeping her from flinging food into Sherlock’s hair as they did eating themselves. It was a tight fit, enough so that Mycroft was pressed completely against Gregory’s side, not that he was complaining in the slightest. Under the table, Gregory kept his hand on Mycroft’s thigh. When Gregory had filled his own plate, he’d put food on Mycroft’s as well. The portions were small, but they still felt a bit more than Mycroft could handle.

“Finish most of it,” Gregory breathed into his ear under the guise of reaching across for the salt, “and you don’t have to eat dessert.”

And Mycroft understood why Gregory’s hand was there. Holding hands would have been difficult and awkward, given that both men were right handed, and while Mycroft possessed many talents, being ambidextrous was not one of them. This was the next best thing. Gregory’s hand was warm, bleeding through Mycroft’s suit, and Mycroft reached down and covered Gregory’s fingers with his own, stroking his thumb over the backs of them twice before letting go and picking up his fork. He noticed Sherlock sneaking glances at him throughout dinner, in between Mummy questioning him about his latest cases and whatever excellent things Rosie had been doing. Mycroft didn’t pay much attention to anything beyond where he was pressed against Gregory and the physical motion of lifting the fork to his mouth. Everything else he tuned out, keeping his breathing as even as he could and swallowing infrequent but reasonably sized bites. Every so often, Gregory would squeeze his thigh gently, sending tingles skating along Mycroft’s skin.

Predictably, Mummy offered dessert once most everyone had finished with dinner (Mycroft still had a few bites on his plate, but he pushed it away subtly, and Gregory kissed his temple). “Dessert sounds lovely,” Gregory said, and Mummy beamed.

Dessert turned out to be a gorgeous strawberry shortcake that made Mycroft’s mouth water at the sight of it, but he turned down having a piece when it was offered to him. When Gregory took the first bite of his, Mycroft recognized the low sound in his throat as Gregory biting back a moan, and he smirked. “This is amazing, Mrs. Holmes,” Gregory said. “Did you make it?”

“Violet, please, Gregory, and yes, I did. I’m glad you like it.”

“You should try a bite of it, Mycroft,” Gregory said. Mycroft’s eyes widened, and he stared at Gregory, nervous. Gregory speared a piece off with his fork, mostly strawberry but with a tiny bit of the cake as well. He offered it out to Mycroft, who hesitated, and then wrapped his lips around the fork and swallowed the bite. He felt Gregory’s fingers flex inadvertently on his thigh.

“It is good,” he murmured, not breaking eye contact. Gregory’s jaw clenched subtly, and Mycroft allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch up in a devilish smile.

Sherlock grimaced, wrinkling up his nose, but John elbowed him and muttered something in his ear that made him straighten up, his face aggressively neutral. Between them, Rosie smeared another handful of cake across her face.

When everyone finished dessert, Gregory and John offered to clear the table and wash the dishes, much to Mummy’s delight, while everyone else adjourned to the living room. As they walked out, side by side, Sherlock whispered to Mycroft, “Lestrade is exceptional at sucking up to our mother.”

“John should be careful,” Mycroft responded in the same low voice, “or Gregory will become Mummy’s favourite future son-in-law.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft an odd look, and he realized what he’d said. “I just meant-”

“I understood perfectly well what you meant,” Sherlock said. He had that look on his face, the one that was usually accompanied by steepled fingers and a slow, drawn-out “Interesting.”

“What are you boys whispering about?”

“Nothing, Mummy,” they said together, jerking away from each other.

She gave them a frown that made it clear she didn’t believe them, but she didn’t question them further. She settled into her chair, Rosie once again on her lap, and said, “She looks a great deal like John.”

“She has his eyes,” Sherlock agreed.

“I was beginning to despair of ever having grandchildren,” Mummy went on. “It’s not too late, you know. For either of you.”

“I think the one will suffice,” Sherlock said, a faint pink blush dusting his cheeks. “She’s quite a handful. I don’t know what we’d have done if it had been twins.”

“What about you, Mikey?” Mummy asked. “Any thoughts of grandchildren?”

“For goodness sake, Mummy,” Mycroft said, “Gregory and I haven’t even been together a year. It’s far too early in the relationship to be thinking of children. And anyway, he has two already. I’m not sure he’d want another.”

“He has two children?”

“From his marriage. They’re in their twenties now,” Mycroft said. “I’ve met them. They’re very bright girls, and Emily in particular has a glittering career ahead of her.”

“You didn’t say he’d been married,” Mummy looked concerned.

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Mycroft responded.

“And is he divorced now?”

“Mummy!” Mycroft was shocked. “Do you really think I’d be in a relationship with a married man?”

“A lot of things about you have been surprising me recently,” Mummy said in way of answer.

“He is divorced,” Mycroft said firmly.

She raised her hands in surrender. “I do care about you, Mycroft. Whatever it may look like, you are my son, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I highly doubt Lestrade will hurt him,” Sherlock said confidently. “And if he does...well, without their best detective, Scotland Yard will find it impossible to find his body.”

“Are we threatening me with bodily harm again?” Gregory asked pleasantly as he and John entered the room.

“Sherlock was defending my honour,” Mycroft said dryly.

“How nice of him,” Gregory teased Sherlock. To Mummy he said, “We really should head out. It’s been a lovely evening, but it’s getting pretty late, and we do have a long drive.”

“Nonsense,” Mummy said. “I wouldn’t have you leave now. You won’t get back to London until nearly midnight, and I won’t have you driving when there’s a good chance of falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Gregory is a perfectly safe driver-” Mycroft began to protest, but Mummy held her hand up, cutting him off.

“You’ll spend tonight in one of the guest bedrooms and leave in the morning.” Her voice made it clear that was the final thought on the subject. It would do no good arguing with her. “You as well, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted from a smirk to a look of horror, “We’re not driving. Why do we have to stay?”

“Do you really want to take Rosie on the train this late? It’ll mess up the poor thing’s sleep schedule horribly. No, you’re staying too.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said in an attempt to placate his partner. “We probably should be putting Rosie to bed now anyway. It’s well past her bedtime.” He collected Rosie from Mummy, “Thank you, Violet, for letting us stay here tonight.”

“It’s my pleasure, dear,” she smiled. “You three can have the larger guest bedroom. It has a cot in it that she can sleep on.”

“Alright,” John said. “Sherlock? Coming?”

Sherlock pouted slightly but followed his boyfriend. “Goodnight,” John called pleasantly, Sherlock grumpily muttering the same.

Gregory nudged Mycroft, “Why don’t we turn in too? We’ll need to be up first thing tomorrow to get back into the city, and I know it takes you forever to fall asleep when you’re worried about work.”

Mycroft nodded, “Perhaps that is best.”

Gregory stood, “Then lead the way, love. Goodnight, Violet. Goodnight, Siger.”

“Goodnight, Gregory,” Mummy responded. “We might be up a while longer, but we’ll be quiet so we don’t disturb you.”

Mycroft bid his parents goodnight and led Gregory down the hall and into the smaller of the two guest bedrooms, closing the door behind them. He watched Gregory take in the room; it was fairly bland, with a beige bedspread and matching rug underfoot, a wooden bookcase stocked mostly with cookbooks and interspersed with detective novels and math textbooks, and a door that led to the bathroom the two guest rooms shared. Mycroft’s chest tightened and his stomach plummeted when he remembered the one thing the room did not have: a dresser. Mycroft hadn’t expected to spend the night, and so hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes or, more importantly, anything to sleep in.

“Love?” Gregory asked softly, coming back to stand in front of him, “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft supposed he looked as spooked as he felt. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, “It’s nothing. I’m just not looking forward to sleeping in my suit, that’s all.”

Gregory’s brow crinkled as he frowned, “Why would you sleep in your suit?”

“I don’t have any pajamas here, Gregory, and I’m certainly not sleeping in the nude.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you do,” Gregory said. “Just sleep in your pants, love. It’s fine.” Mycroft studied the floor, and Gregory’s expression melted a bit. He gathered Mycroft into his arms, leaning his forehead against Mycroft’s, “This is about you being body shy again, isn’t it?”

Mycroft gave a tiny nod.

“It’s just me here, sweetheart,” Gregory said softly, and Mycroft’s brain latched onto the fact that Gregory was using that new pet name again, so he almost missed Gregory’s next words, “I know it makes you anxious, but do you really think, after everything, I’d leave just because I saw you in your pants?”

“I set a boundary, Gregory,” Mycroft managed.

“You did,” Gregory looked apologetic, and he kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose, and then his forehead. “I’m sorry. I just know how uncomfortable it is to fall asleep in that kind of shirt, and I don’t know how else to do this.” He considered for a moment, and then suggested, “What if we turn the lights off? Would that be okay?”

Mycroft considered it, and then shook his head. “I’ll take my trousers off, but I’m leaving the shirt on,” he said. “That’s...that’s all.”

“That’s fine,” Gregory murmured. “Let’s get ready for bed, yeah?”

“I think John and Sherlock are using the bathroom,” Mycroft said. “Why don’t we give them a moment?”

“Good idea,” Gregory agreed. He wandered over to the bedspread and sat down. “I couldn’t really hear well from the kitchen,” he said, “but it sounded like your mum was talking about grandkids.”

Mycroft sat down next to him, “She was talking about Rosie, asking Sherlock if he was going to give her any more grandchildren.”

“Just Sherlock?”

After a moment’s pause, Mycroft admitted, “Myself as well.”

“What’d you say?” Gregory sounded curious. Not angry, not worried, not pressuring or presuming. Just curious.

“I told her it was far too early in our relationship to be considering it,” Mycroft answered.

“Do you want them?”

Mycroft blinked, “What?”

“Kids. Do you want them?” Gregory was doing a remarkably good job at keeping his demeanour casual. Mycroft didn’t have a clue what was going on in his head.

“With you?” he asked carefully.

Gregory shrugged, “In general.”

“I’d never given it much thought,” Mycroft said truthfully. “My lifestyle does not lend itself to single parenthood.”

“You’re not single now.”

“No, I’m not.” Mycroft twisted his hands in his lap. This should have been an awkward conversation, but it didn’t make him nearly as anxious as he was expecting. “I...I don’t think I want children, Gregory. I feel like I’m too old to become a parent now, and my schedule...both our schedules are too erratic to make it a good environment for a child.” He looked up, looked Gregory in the eye, “If you really wanted a child, someday when we were certain this relationship was going to last, then maybe I could be persuaded. But for now, I think my answer is no.”

“That’s fine,” Gregory gave him a crooked, reassuring grin. “Honestly, I always wanted kids, and I got ‘em. Emily and Lucy are great. They’re everything I could have asked for. So I’m okay if you don’t want kids.” He leaned in and planted a slow, lingering kiss on Mycroft’s lips, and when he pulled away, he said, “I’m really proud of you. I could tell today was really hard for you, but you still ate when I asked you to.”

“Not very much,” Mycroft said, feeling guilty, although he wasn’t sure if he felt guiltier for eating or for not eating.

“Still,” Gregory said. “You ate _something_. Even though you didn’t want to. And I know you didn’t smoke when you went outside, even though your anxiety’s been pretty bad. So thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft murmured, and pulled Gregory in for another kiss. After being around his family all day, it was nice to finally be alone with Gregory, even if it was still in his parents’ house. Mycroft felt safest when it was just him and Gregory, and he felt relaxed for the first time all day.

“I think Sherlock and John have gone to bed,” he murmured when they broke apart. “There are toothbrushes in the bathroom. Why don’t you go first?”

“Sure, love,” Gregory didn’t question it, going into the bathroom (although he opened the door carefully, without being in front of it, in case Mycroft was wrong) and closing the door behind him.

Mycroft stood up, shedding his suit jacket and waistcoat, folding them neatly and placing them on the bookshelf. He hesitated, and then unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers, which joined the neat pile. After a minute, Gregory stepped out of the bathroom and gestured towards it, “Your turn.” He hesitated as Mycroft passed by, and asked, “You okay if I sleep in just my pants? I know you don’t tend to mind me going shirtless, but I don’t know how you feel about me taking my trousers off.”

Mycroft blushed, “I don’t mind.”

Gregory grinned, fingers going to his shirt buttons, and Mycroft felt himself turn even redder and hurried into the bathroom. He went quickly with getting ready, although he did pause to look at himself in the mirror. Reflected back at him was a man who looked too uptight for someone about to go to bed with their boyfriend. Nervously, he undid the top two buttons of his shirt in an attempt to look more relaxed, then panicked and redid one of them. His fingers clenched against the lip of the sink, and he took a deep breath. He had slept in the same bed as Gregory plenty often. He couldn’t understand why he felt the fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Surely he wasn’t fearful? It was Gregory, after all. As Mycroft’s thoughts turned to his boyfriend, waiting shirtless in bed, his stomach flipped, although in a completely different way than it had been all day, and Mycroft realized what the sensation was. Although no one was around to see his reaction, the blush returned for just a moment before he schooled himself. He flicked the bathroom light off and stepped out into the bedroom.

Gregory had turned the overhead light off, so the only source of illumination came from the small lamp on the bedside table, which looked ancient and gave off a faint haze of yellow, lighting Gregory up like a painting. And he looked it too, sprawled out on the bed, his head propped up under one arm, the blankets partially pushed back but covering up to his waist. Mycroft bit his lip, memorizing the image so he could return to it later, and then carefully lowered himself onto the foot of the bed. Gregory gave him a slightly confused smile, and Mycroft returned it with a predatory grin. He crawled up the bed, up Gregory’s body, until he planted one hand on either side of his boyfriend’s head, his knees framing Gregory’s thighs. By the time he settled there, Gregory’s lips had parted in surprise, his pupils swelling to black out the iris. He looked positively delicious.

“Hi,” Gregory breathed, like he hardly dared to speak aloud.

“Hello, Gregory,” Mycroft purred. There was something about being in a position of such clear, if subtle, domination over his boyfriend, whose bare, lightly muscled chest was proof positive that he could probably take Mycroft down without breaking a sweat if he so desired, that set fire to Mycroft's veins. He leaned down, keeping their bodies separated, and stopped a hair's breadth away from Gregory's lips, waiting to see what his boyfriend would do.

Gregory remained still, as if paralyzed, his lips still parted slightly, and Mycroft grinned and closed the distance, biting down on Gregory's bottom lip and then swiping his tongue along it. Gregory choked back a moan, and Mycroft chased after it, sealing their lips together. Gregory's hands came up to clutch at Mycroft's arms, and he strained up into the kiss, letting Mycroft slide his tongue into his mouth.

After several long seconds,  Mycroft released him from the kiss, and Gregory fell back down onto the bed, panting. “Not sure this is the best time.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed happily, leaning down again to take Gregory's earlobe between his teeth, scraping them along it. “Why not?”

“Well, you've had kind of a rough day-”

Mycroft switched sides, “So I deserve to blow off a little steam in whatever way I see fit.”

“-and I'm not sure you can think clearly right now-”

“There is absolutely nothing that has hindered my thought process. I _want_ you, Gregory. Let me have you, please?” He pressed a series of kisses along Gregory's jawline.

“-and we’re in your parents’ house,” Gregory finished on a hiss.

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” he said, “your parents are down the hall and John and Sherlock are next door.”

“They won't come in, if that's what you're worried about.”

“They might if they hear us.”

Mycroft pulled away to see Gregory's face flushed bright red in the pale light. “Is that your only hesitation, my darling?” he asked, “If you're not in the mood, I can certainly stop, but if volume is your only fear…”

Gregory shifted his hips, the clearly defined bulge in his pants inadvertently brushing briefly against Mycroft’s leg, “Definitely in the mood. But you know I'm not great at being quiet in bed.”

Mycroft hummed again and recaptured Gregory's lips. When the kiss broke, he murmured, “I'm sure we can find a way to fix that.” And with that, he lowered his hips to meet Gregory's.

Gregory inhaled sharply, “Shit!” His fingers tightened on Mycroft's arms, and he closed his eyes and bit his lip to hold back the whimpers.

“Look at me, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered. “I want to see your eyes.”

With clear difficulty, Gregory opened his eyes again, the brown almost completely obscured by black. Without breaking eye contact, Mycroft guided one of Gregory's hands to his hip. Unexpectedly, Gregory chuckled, and Mycroft frowned, “What?”

“Silk,” Gregory murmured, stroking the fabric of Mycroft's pants with his thumb. “I don't know what I was expecting.” He brought the other hand up to cup Mycroft's cheek, “You sure you want to do this, love?”

Rather than automatically say yes, Mycroft allowed himself to consider. He'd been good for Gregory, eating when he had asked, and Gregory had been good for him, not drawing attention to it in front of Mummy, not to mention defending Mycroft against her. Was he trying to reward Gregory for that behaviour? Perhaps. But Mycroft could solidly say that he wanted this. He had been good, he had faced his fears, and damn it, he was getting a reward. “I want to do this,” he confirmed.

He settled himself more comfortably on top of Gregory, his boyfriend biting back another moan as Mycroft shifted against him. Gregory was already almost completely hard in his pants, and Mycroft couldn't deny being in a similar state. He rolled his hips down gently, experimentally, and had to suppress his own hiss of pleasure, although he was moderately more successful than Gregory, who had to let go of Mycroft's face to bite down on his fist in order to muffle his moans. Mycroft pulled Gregory's hand away from his mouth and surprised them both by pinning it to the mattress next to Gregory's head. There was a pause, and then they surged together, teeth clashing in a messy kiss as Mycroft thrust more roughly against Gregory, his boyfriend’s hand sliding from Mycroft hip to his arse and gripping tightly to push him even closer. A tiny, miniscule part of Mycroft's mind not currently running on instinct wondered if he should be frightened, trying to compare the situation to what he'd experienced with David, but Mycroft shut that part of his mind up by digging the fingers of his free hand into Gregory's hair, pulling lightly and making his boyfriend gasp against his lips. It had the added bonus of putting Mycroft on his forearm, no longer hovering above Gregory but moulded against his chest, so he could feel Gregory's heartbeat thundering like a racehorse. Forget frightened; Mycroft was fucking flying.

If Mycroft had thought Gregory touching him set sparks off under his skin, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. It had been ages, years since he’d had anything but his own hand on his cock, and even those occasions were few and far between. Gregory was warm between his legs, giving off heat like a furnace, and each roll of Mycroft’s hips brought them more into contact with each other, Gregory gasping and whispering swears against Mycroft’s lips as he bucked his hips up to meet each thrust. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hard, almost dizzy with the lack of blood flow to his brain. He let go of Gregory’s hand to run his fingers through his chest hair, relishing the skin-to-skin contact. His hand settled on Gregory’s stomach, and he paused, pushing himself into a more upright position.

Gregory cocked his head on the pillow, “You okay, love?”

“I want to try something,” Mycroft said.

“Whatever you want,” Gregory murmured. His hand stroked absently up and down Mycroft's bare leg, leaving goose pimples in its wake.

Mycroft bit his lip, looking down at his boyfriend, figuring out the logistics. He slid backward until he was straddling Gregory's thighs instead of his hips, his boyfriend unable to help the low whine in his throat at the loss of contact. Mycroft shushed him gently and reached for the waistband of Gregory's pants. He hooked his fingers in them, and then looked at Gregory, suddenly feeling a bit shy, “Do you think we could turn the light off?”

Gregory shook his head, “I'm not doing this in the dark, love. I need to be able to see you, or it's not happening.” He brushed a stray curl off Mycroft's forehead, “Alright?”

Mycroft took a deep breath and nodded. Gregory smiled, “You're gorgeous like this, sweetheart. You have no idea.”

Mycroft ignored the comment, too wound up to protest but not willing to accept it as fact. Instead, he pulled down Gregory's pants, his boyfriend hissing as the air hit his bare cock, bright red and dripping precum from the tip. Various data points had come together in Mycroft's mind to give him a rough estimation of Gregory's size, but it wasn't quite like seeing it in the flesh. Mycroft didn't have much information in the way of comparison, but from what he was aware, Gregory was a bit above average, in length as well as width, larger than Mycroft and certainly larger than David had been, and there was a moment of unease where Mycroft's body clenched uncomfortably at the thought of having it inside him. He banished the thought, because that wasn't what they were doing and he refused to let it get in the way of his goal.

Carefully, Mycroft wrapped his hand around Gregory's length, which pulled a wince out of his boyfriend. Mycroft froze and let go. “Sorry,” Gregory murmured, “your hands are really cold.”

“Oh.” Mycroft didn't know how to fix that, and he stared helplessly down at Gregory, who grinned.

“Here,” Gregory said, and drew Mycroft's hand to his mouth. Mycroft's eyes widened as Gregory wrapped his lips around Mycroft's thumb, his tongue swiping blazing hot paths along the pad of it. Mycroft's cock, still trapped in his pants, gave a painful throb at the sight. One by one, Gregory took Mycroft's fingers into his mouth, sucking on them until they were dripping wet and Mycroft was a whimpering, undignified mess, grinding his erection down against Gregory's thigh. Gregory released the last one with a pop, and smirked up at Mycroft, clearing enjoying his boyfriend's reaction. “Try now,” he said.

Mycroft obliging wrapped his hand around Gregory's cock, and his boyfriend let out of moan that Mycroft silenced by capturing his lips. “Fuck, that's good,” Gregory breathed into his mouth.

The words were all the encouragement Mycroft needed, and he squeezed lightly and then gave a firm stroke from root to tip, eliciting a gasp from Gregory, whose fingers tightened where they lay on Mycroft's leg in response. Mycroft did it again, and swallowed Gregory's moans eagerly, like he was starving for them. He adjusted the angle of his stroke slightly, until Gregory gasped out, “Just like that, sweetheart, fuck.” Mycroft added a twist on the end of his stroke, and Gregory turned into a puddle under him.

Not that that stopped him from trying. After a minute (full of profuse swearing and gorgeous bitten-off moans), he panted, “Mycroft? Love?”

Recognizing the question in Gregory's voice, Mycroft slowed his stroking down to teasing levels, “Yes, darling?”

“Do you think I could touch you?” Gregory's voice was soft, like he wasn't sure he should be asking.

Mycroft hesitated, and then shakily responded, “Alright.”

“We don't have to-” Gregory said quickly.

Mycroft cut him off, “You'll stop if I tell you it's too much?”

“Of course.”

“Then I'd like to. Try that.”

“Okay,” Gregory murmured. “Here, just…” Mycroft released him when Gregory began shifting upright. He sat back, leaning against the headboard, and Mycroft crawled back into his lap, pressing searching kisses along his neck as Gregory stroked his hair.

“You okay if I take these off?” Gregory thumbed the waistband of Mycroft's pants, his fingers dipping under to trace against Mycroft's hipbone. Mycroft nodded. “Alright,” Gregory whispered, and slid them down gently. Mycroft shifted, feeling slightly awkward as his cock was revealed, and Gregory reassured him, “It’s okay. You good?” Again, Mycroft nodded, and Gregory said, “I’m going to touch you now, alright?”

“Okay,” Mycroft could barely hear his voice over the pounding of his heartbeat. His erection had flagged slightly, but the moment Gregory wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cock it surged back to attention, leaving Mycroft dizzy and clinging to Gregory’s shoulders for support. Gregory let go for a moment, just long enough to spit in his hand so that when he circled his fingers around Mycroft’s cock again it was wet. He dragged his thumb over the tip, and Mycroft gasped, unable to help bucking his hips into the touch.

Gregory chuckled, “Feel good?” God, his voice was even lower now, and Mycroft felt all of the awkwardness fly from his mind as arousal surged up again. He reached down, taking Gregory’s cock in hand so his boyfriend wouldn’t feel left out, and pressed a desperate, bruising kiss to his lips, his free hand clutching at the back of Gregory’s neck.

Gregory gripped his hip again, “Can I-?”

Mycroft bit the question off his lips, sliding forward to crush them together. Gregory batted Mycroft’s hand away, wrapping his own around both of them, and Mycroft gasped. “This okay?” Gregory asked.

“God, yes,” Mycroft managed. “Gregory. Gregory, please-”

“Shh,” Gregory pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, “I’ve got you.” His strokes started out gentle, combined with little thrusts of his hips, allowing Mycroft to get used to the feeling. It was just as overwhelming as Mycroft had anticipated, but he didn’t feel the customary anxiety with losing control. He was still in charge. He could still guide the situation.

He proved it to himself by rocking his hips sharply into Gregory’s hand, changing the pace, and his boyfriend’s lips curled into a cat-like grin. He tightened his hand, his strokes becoming rougher as Mycroft claimed his mouth in a messy tangle of tongue and teeth and lips, quiet moans intermingling and silenced by each other until Mycroft wasn’t sure which one of them was making the sounds.

Mycroft felt his orgasm curling low in his stomach, and his pants and groans broke off into soft sobs as he buried his head in Gregory’s shoulder, sucking and nipping a love bite into his collarbone, still thrusting his hips, chasing the pleasure. Gregory understood, and soothed, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you. You’re fucking amazing, Mycroft, cum for me, love, it’s okay.”

Mycroft cried out, his fingers tightening as he clung to Gregory, shaking through his orgasm. He kept trembling, even when it ended, his cock twitching with the last spurts of his release and then going still. Gregory let go of him and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, allowing his boyfriend to sob into his neck. Mycroft had forgotten how intense it could feel, sharing his body with someone like that, although he wasn’t entirely certain it ever _had_ felt like that with David. His skin was tingling all over, like an electric current was running under it, and his mind was so far in the clouds that he could barely remember his own name.

“Mycroft?” Gregory whispered into his hair. “Talk to me, love.”

“That…” It took considerable effort for Mycroft to focus enough to find the words, “That was incredible.”

“Yeah?” Mycroft could hear the grin in Gregory’s voice.

“Yes, it was,” he said, lifting his head. Sure enough, Gregory was grinning at him. Mycroft shifted in his lap, brushing against Gregory's erection, and realized his boyfriend hadn't cum. “Your turn,” he murmured, sliding his hand between them.

“Love, you don't have to-” Gregory's words dropped off sharply when Mycroft started stroking, and it only took another minute for him to reach his peak too, cries of pleasure muffled against Mycroft's shoulder. He panted, collapsing back against the headboard when Mycroft released him, “Fuck.”

“Is that a positive response?” Mycroft teased.

Gregory swiped at him playfully, “What do you think, you fucking sex _god_.”

“I think your time of abstinence has greatly lowered your standards.”

“Nah, but I might have a bit of a bias when it comes to you,” Gregory smirked. He glanced down between them and groaned, distinctly less sexy than before, “We’re a mess.”

“Tissues are on the nightstand,” Mycroft said. “I'd suggest a flannel from the bathroom, but I don't particularly want to think about my mother finding it in the wash.”

Gregory pulled a face, “Yeah, no.” He nudged Mycroft's hip gently, and Mycroft took the cue to move, shuffling off of Gregory's lap and settling next to him on the bed. His whole body felt pleasantly relaxed, and he found himself surprisingly tired.

A moment later, Gregory handed him a handful of tissues, and Mycroft cleaned himself up, righting his pants and throwing the tissues in the waste basket when he was done. Gregory did the same, and then reached over and flicked off the light, the two men settling under the blankets together. Gregory spooned him, stroking his hand along Mycroft's bare leg, “I really fucking love your legs, you know that?”

“I didn't,” Mycroft murmured.

“I love how long they are, and how they're fucking elegant, just like the rest of you.”

“You swear more, post-coital,” Mycroft observed lazily.

“I'm pretty sure that orgasm killed a few of my brain cells, so I think I'm entitled.”

“If it has such an adverse effect on your intellect, perhaps we should refrain from doing it again.”

Mycroft had meant the words to be teasing, but Gregory rested his forehead against the back of Mycroft's neck and asked, in a serious voice, “You wanted to, right? I didn't…”

Mycroft turned on his other side so he could face Gregory, “You did nothing that I didn't want you to.”

“You sure? I feel like I got a little pushy towards the end.”

“A bit, but I still felt in control, Gregory. And I enjoyed it immensely.”

“So it was okay?”

“It was more than okay,” Mycroft said. After a beat, he admitted, “I didn't know sex could feel like that.”

“You know, every time you say something like that, it breaks my heart a little.”

“Oh?”

Gregory stroked Mycroft's hair lightly, “Sex should be better than okay, and it definitely shouldn't be so bad that your mind feels the need to black out during it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again, “It scares me, sometimes. Thinking that I'm setting the new bar for you. It's a lot of pressure. But in a good way, you know?”

“I think so,” Mycroft responded. He knew it was a lot, trusting Gregory to guide him through this, but he couldn’t think of anyone better suited to the task. He snuggled against Gregory’s chest, “I do believe that’s the most enjoyable exercise I’ve ever experienced.”

“It’s all the hormones flooding your brain, love,” Gregory murmured. “Like a runner’s high, but better.”

“It can’t just be the hormones,” Mycroft responded, “or it would feel this good on my own as well, and I can guarantee you it doesn’t.”

Gregory chuckled and teased, “Well, I’d be happy to help you research it more thoroughly.”

“Mmm. We’ll need lots of hands-on studies, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Mycroft laughed, “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“Then it’s a very good thing we found each other,” Mycroft said. He sighed in contentment, “I'm not certain there are any bones left in my body.”

“Want me to check?” Gregory asked in mock-seriousness. His eyes were sparkling in the darkness, and Mycroft laughed and pushed his hand away when Gregory pinched his hip. “Good news, Mr. Holmes,” he murmured, kissing Mycroft's lips sweetly, “I think your bones are right where they're supposed to be.”

“I didn't realize you were medically trained, Detective Inspector.” The banter was familiar with Gregory, but it felt almost strange to have it in this context; sex with David was almost always followed by him leaving or falling asleep. Mycroft decided he liked it much better this way.

Gregory kissed him again, still gentle, and murmured, “Is it bad to wish you had done water polo like I thought? I was hoping for pictures of you dripping wet and topless.”

Mycroft sighed, sobering up. He toyed with a fold in the bedspread, “As my mother pointed out, sports were not my area.”

“Why not? I mean, don't get me wrong, I've always pictured you as the posh bookworm, but not even just fencing? Or one of the other posh sports you hear about snooty rich kids playing?”

“It wasn't the sports themselves,” Mycroft said. “I actually rather liked fencing. It was elegant, all about finesse.”

“So why quit?”

“I was overweight and clumsy. Locker rooms were a nightmare. The other students liked to make fun of my weight, and when they found out I was gay the comments got even worse. They were always accusing me of trying to look at them in the shower, calling me demeaning names. I couldn't take it. I stopped trying to find a sport and focused on academics instead.”

“Christ, love, I'm sorry.”

“It's hardly your fault,” Mycroft said.

“Doesn't mean I'm not sorry. I can't imagine having to go through that.”

“Yes, well, you were also captain of the football team.”

“Not _captain._ I've told you that.” Gregory gave him a soft smile. “I always wondered, you know? If that sort of stuff was happening and I just didn't see it. I knew I was bi, and a lot of others did too, but no one ever gave me shit about it. Perks of them knowing I could kick the shit out of them if they fucked with me.”

Mycroft leaned his forehead against Gregory's, closing his eyes. Like he was revealing a secret, he whispered, “You make me feel safe, Gregory. I've spent my whole life feeling antagonized, by cruel children, by my family, by my partner, by myself.” He chuckled, “by the assassins and secret agents who wish to do me in.” He turned serious again, opening his eyes to find that Gregory was watching him in the dark, a faint concern painting his features. “But somehow, even when everything else feels overwhelming and beyond my control, I always feel safe with you.”

“I’m always going to be here for you, sweetheart. I promise.”

Finally in a position to do so, Mycroft acknowledged the new pet name, “Sweetheart?”

“I can call you that, right?” Gregory asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “I just didn't expect it. It's new.”

“Thought I'd try it out,” Gregory said. “I like giving you pet names.”

“I like you.”

“I should hope so,” Gregory laughed. “Come on, love. We should actually get some sleep tonight.”

Mycroft obediently quieted down, and he fell asleep to the sound of Gregory's steady breathing.

It took him a minute, when he woke up, to recall where he was. He was cuddled into Gregory, which was typical, their legs tangled together and with one of Gregory's arms draped over his waist, but the bed was unfamiliar and he wasn't wearing his pajamas. Then his brain came back online, reminding him that they were at his parents’ house, in one of the guest bedrooms.

Carefully, Mycroft slid out from under Gregory's arm, careful not to wake him, and padded to the bathroom. He relieved himself, then washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. He noted the faint dusting of stubble on his jawline, although it was subtle. Mycroft had always considered himself lucky in how slowly his facial hair grew. Still, he'd have to shave when he got home.

Gregory was still sleeping when Mycroft left the bathroom, his arm stretched out along the bed, groping absently for something that wasn't there. Mycroft smiled affectionately and tucked himself back against Gregory's side, and his boyfriend huffed in his sleep and settled again.

In the dim grey morning light, the bruise Mycroft had sucked over Gregory's collarbone was only faintly visible, but it sent a little shock of arousal through Mycroft's body, his cock twitching slightly with interest as he recalled the previous night's activities. He pressed a careful kiss to Gregory's lips, and then nuzzled along his cheek, feeling Gregory's stubble scrape roughly against his face.

Gregory stirred, “Love?”

Mycroft pulled back slightly, “Good morning, Gregory.”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft, what time is it?” Gregory squinted at the nightstand, trying to see the clock on his phone.

“Not time to get up yet,” Mycroft murmured in response.

“Then why the hell are you waking me up?” Gregory really wasn't a morning person, and it was much earlier than he usually greeted the day.

To make it up to him, Mycroft shifted his leg, sliding it between Gregory's to put a gentle pressure on his cock. His boyfriend gaped at Mycroft, suddenly much more awake. He slid his hand down Mycroft's side to settle on his hip, thumb stroking a sliver of bare skin where Mycroft's shirt had ridden up. “What's this about?” he asked carefully.

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked innocently, knowing his words were going to lose some effect when he combined them with rocking his knee forward.

Gregory gritted his teeth. He was holding himself together remarkably well, his hips twitching into the pressure only slightly as his cock hardened. “Could you stop that a minute?” he asked.

Frowning, Mycroft withdrew. Gregory rubbed his nose against Mycroft's, a tiny, affectionate gesture to let Mycroft know he wasn't upset (not that it stopped him from worrying), and then murmured, “What's gotten into you? Don't get me wrong, I love that you're not shying away from sex, but ever since we talked you've been...I dunno, more…”

“Physical?” Mycroft suggested.

“I was thinking more along the lines of 'pushy.’”

“I don't understand,” Mycroft said quietly. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” Gregory said quickly. “I just...I'm not sure I get what changed.”

“I don't know,” Mycroft admitted. “I'm not saying it completely changed how I felt, but after we spoke, sex didn't...it didn't frighten me as badly as it used to. You handed me the reins, so to speak. Gave me control. So I feel a little more comfortable testing my limits, seeing what I can handle.” Mycroft was under no delusions that their talk meant he could dive in headfirst, but there were things he was more comfortable with, things he was willing to try. He trusted Gregory. “Besides,” he murmured, “I assumed you would be glad our sex life was a little more...frequent. And variable.”

“That's what worries me, love,” Gregory explained. “You assuming things. I told you, I'm willing to do this at your pace. And I'm not in your head, so when you're ready to change the pace, I can't tell. It makes me think you're doing it for my benefit, because I don't have anything else to go on.”

“I apologize for not making my feelings more clear,” Mycroft said. “I’m not doing this out of obligation to you, Gregory. If anything, it's a bit selfish of me, because I want to do this for myself. I don't want to be frightened any longer.”

“And that's fine,” Gregory said. “That's good. Just...run things by me first, okay? We said communication.”

“You're right,” Mycroft sighed. “I'm sorry.”

Gregory kissed his forehead, “Don't be. This is a work in progress. We're allowed to make mistakes every now and again.” He slumped back against the pillows, “Now, it is way too early for me to be having this conversation. I'm going back to sleep.”

Mycroft slid his hand down Gregory's bare chest, tangling suggestively in his chest hair, “Are you sure?”

Gregory chuckled, “Yes, I'm sure, love. Believe it or not, sometimes sleep trumps sex. You gonna lay with me, or are you going to be a ridiculous morning person and get up?”

“I think I'll stay here awhile.”

Gregory pulled Mycroft to him and closed his eyes, settling easily back into sleep. For Mycroft, it wasn't quite so easy now that he was awake, but he closed his eyes anyway and relaxed.

He didn't quite fall asleep, but he drifted in that hazy, half-dream state for another hour and a half, until finally he had to concede that they really did need to get up if they wanted to be back to London before noon. He checked his phone, which he'd been avoiding, and groaned when he saw several missed calls from Anthea. Mycroft nudged Gregory, “It's time to get up, darling.”

Gregory let out a huff, and then pushed himself into a sitting position. As he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he asked, “Any word from Anthea?”

“Several phone calls. I imagine it's probably urgent.”

“Call her back, then,” Gregory said. “Let me get dressed, and then we can go when you're ready.” He slid off the bed and picked up his clothes. He gestured towards the bathroom, “Don't worry. I promise I won't spy on your top secret phone call.” He gave Mycroft a lopsided smile and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Mycroft pulled his trousers back on. He was never one to discuss business in his pants. Then he dialled Anthea’s number. She picked up on the first ring, “I've been trying to get ahold of you, Mr. Holmes.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft said. “I was...indisposed. I hope the reason you've called me isn't too critical.”

“'Fraid so,” she responded. “We need you back in London. As soon as possible. The council is gathering this afternoon.”

“Dear god,” Mycroft murmured. “That bad?”

“Well, the good news is, the election turned out as we wanted. The bad news is, it had everyone so busy that certain other things were…overlooked.”

“I'm on my way.”

“Should I send a helicopter?”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “What time is the meeting?”

“Two p.m.”

“A helicopter won't be necessary. I should be back with time to prepare.”

Gregory stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed, and shot Mycroft a questioning look.

On the other end of the line, Anthea said, “I'll have a car waiting when you get home.”

“Thank you, Anthea. I will see you this afternoon.” He hung up and looked at Gregory, “It appears I am needed at work.”

“Figured as much.”

Mycroft draped his suit jacket and waistcoat over his forearm, “Shall we go?”

“Do I have time to get coffee?”

“That's fine.”

The hall was quiet when they opened the door, but when they got to the living room, Father was in his armchair, newspaper open on his lap. He glanced up and smiled, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Gregory responded.

“Violet's in the kitchen with Sherlock and John. I don't know if you drink coffee?”

“I do,” Gregory said. “Think I could snag a cup before we head out?”

“Leaving already?” Mummy asked, poking her head through the doorway.

“A work thing came up for Mycroft,” Gregory explained. He followed her back into the kitchen, and Mycroft trailed after him.

While Mummy poured Gregory a cup of coffee, Mycroft studied his brother, who was, in turn, watching John feed Rosie. When Sherlock glanced up and saw Mycroft hovering by the door, he did a double take, his eyes widening slightly. He cleared his throat and looked away, “Sleep well, Mycroft?”

“Quite well,” Mycroft responded, unsure what minute cue Sherlock had picked up on to warrant such a reaction.

“Did Lestrade enjoy the bed too?” The question was laced with meaning, and Mycroft realized Sherlock was demonstrating that he could, in fact, be subtle when he wanted to.

Mycroft was torn between embarrassment and smugness at Sherlock's deduction. Remembering his brother's teasing from the previous evening, Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock when he lifted his eyes to meet Mycroft's, smirking slightly and responding, “Ask him, if you'd like. I'm sure he'd be delighted to tell you, although I suspect you wouldn't care to hear.” Not that Mycroft believed Gregory would be at all interested in discussing their sex life with Sherlock, but the comment had the intended effect; his brother shuddered and looked away.

“You and Sherlock having a private joke?” Gregory murmured in Mycroft's ear, pressing up against his side.

“Just ensuring that my brother doesn't pry into affairs he'd rather not know about.”

“What?”

Even more quietly, Mycroft whispered, “Sex.”

“Oh.” Gregory shot Sherlock a look, “That's really none of his business.”

“So I said.”

Gregory downed the last dregs of his coffee and said, “Ready to go?”

“Just a moment,” Mummy said. “I’d like to speak to Mycroft. In private.”

Sherlock poorly hid a snicker, grinning down at the table with a look Mycroft recognized from childhood: the satisfied smirk when the other sibling was in trouble. Mycroft glanced at Gregory, trying to keep the anxiety blooming in his stomach off his face, “Why don't you start the car? I'll be out in a moment.”

Gregory nodded and left the room, with a brief nod to the other occupants. Mycroft followed his mother down the hall with trepidation. She stopped out of earshot of the living room, and turned to him. “Oh, relax,” she said, seeing his face. “There’s no need to look so frightened.”

Mycroft had thought his expression was unreadable, but then, the Holmes children got their genius from somewhere. “What did you wish to discuss with me?”

The corner of Mummy’s lip twitched. She looked like she was wrestling with words that didn’t want to come out. Finally, she said, in a voice that was no less powerful for how quiet it was, “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft blinked, the phrase not registering properly in his mind. All he managed was, “What?”

Mummy huffed, “Don’t make me repeat myself, Mikey, you know I hate it.” She sighed, “I stayed up quite late last night, thinking about what your Gregory said to me. About how I’ve treated you. I know I’ve been hard on you. You’re my eldest. I’ve always had high expectations for you. And, I think, I may have been a little bitter. I gave up my career to have you, so I thought if I pushed you hard enough, you would be successful and I could feel like my legacy lived on. But you met and then surpassed my expectations, and I just kept pushing. I’ve always wondered if it was my fault you pulled away from us when you went off to school, but I didn’t want to dwell in the past.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mycroft murmured.

“Even so,” Mummy said, “I didn’t consider your feelings on the matter. Our family has never been especially good with emotions, but I should have tried harder. For your sake.” She looked Mycroft square in the face, “When I found out about Eurus, I was furious. I’m still angry. But Gregory was right. It’s not fair of me to take it out on you. So I’m sorry.”

Mycroft was stunned to say the least. Violet Holmes rarely apologized, and even on the few occasions she did she never really admitted to being at fault. Finally, when he collected his thoughts, he said, “I accept your apology. And...thank you.”

Mummy patted his cheek, “Keep that man of yours around, Mycroft. He’s been a wonderful influence on the whole family.”

“I certainly intend to,” he responded. He kissed her cheek, and then said, “I really must go. Say my farewells to everyone.”

She nodded and returned to the kitchen. Mycroft made for the door.

Gregory was waiting in the car. As he pulled out into the street, he asked, “What was that about?”

“She apologized to me.”

“You’re joking. Really?”

“She did,” Mycroft said. “She told me it wasn’t fair how she’d been treating me, and that you were right. She believes you’ve been a good influence on the entire family, not just me.”

Gregory laughed, “So I take it I’ve been approved, then?”

“Indeed you have. Congratulations.”

There was, as Anthea promised, a car waiting when they arrived home. Mycroft paused to let the driver know he would need a few minutes, and then entered the house to shower, shave, and put on a fresh suit. Gregory slipped up behind him while he was looking in the mirror, straightening his tie, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Go save the world, love,” he whispered in Mycroft’s ear. He maintained eye contact with Mycroft in the mirror, and Mycroft felt a jolt of discomfort in his stomach at the sight of Gregory’s perfection wrapped around his own deeply flawed image. He turned his face away. Gregory caught the movement, and pressed a row of kisses down Mycroft’s exposed neck.

“One day,” he said, “when you’re ready, I’m going to make love to you in front of a mirror, sweetheart. I want you to see everything I see, how gorgeous you really are. When you’re ready.” The words, while clearly sexual, had an undercurrent that held so much more emotion than just lust. After one last kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, Gregory released him. “Now you should go. Before the world ends.”

“If the world truly was ending, my darling,” Mycroft said, because it was true and because it was the only response he had that didn’t betray the mixture of affection and uncertainty swelling in his chest, “I would be waiting for it here, with you.”

“Love you too,” Gregory grinned.

Mycroft smiled back, and then headed for the waiting car. Anthea was standing in front of the Diogenes Club, and when he stepped out onto the kerb she fell into step next to Mycroft as he strode in the direction of his office. Her heels clicked loudly as they passed the rooms of silence. When they passed into the section where speaking was permitted, Anthea murmured, “I’m sorry to call you in. I hope your weekend wasn’t ruined.”

“No, I believe my weekend turned out precisely as it should have,” Mycroft answered in the same low voice, although he needn't of worried, what with the extensive soundproofing. “Now, let us make sure the rest of the world enjoys a similarly acceptable weekend. I assume you have all the necessary briefings?”

“Of course, sir,” Anthea said. They reached the door of his office. “Shall we begin at once?”

Mycroft punched in his code, and when he glanced back at her to answer, he caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors lining the hall. He remained quiet for a moment, staring at his reflection. Gregory's parting words played faintly in the back of his mind.

“Sir?”

Anthea’s voice broke his trace, and Mycroft heard himself ask, “I don’t suppose I could eat while we discuss this? I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

Anthea looked pleasantly surprised, but she just said, “Of course, sir. I’ll have someone send something up.” She tapped out the command on her phone, and then swept into the room when Mycroft ushered her through the door.

Mycroft glanced at himself in the mirror one last time. His reflection looked back, a small smile curving at his lips. He shut the door on the image and turned to Anthea, “Let's begin.”


	2. Put My Feet On the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work has Mycroft in a really bad place. Greg is just trying to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this got angsty. A lot about Mycroft's eating disorder and some really negative talk regarding his anxiety. Heed the tags, people, and let me know if anyone needs a summary or if there are any tags you think I should add. I think I've got a handle on where May is going, so hopefully updates will continue regularly. Enjoy!  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead and sighed, slouching forward against his desk in exhaustion. A brief glance at his watch told him that it had officially been twenty-four hours since he’d last been home. In that time, he’d managed perhaps two hours of sleep, napping between meetings. The council, predictably, loved to talk without actually saying much of use, and as such Mycroft had the distinct feeling of spinning in circles, chasing his tail, without actually solving anything. It was making his anxiety a constant, high pitched thrum in the back of his head, increasing in intensity every hour or so. But Mycroft was a professional, so he put on his mask and kept going.

Anthea had been by his side the whole time, plying him with tea and sandwiches that had to be taken away later, untouched, as Mycroft lost focus of everything but the work before him. She had also conspired with Gregory at some point in the recent past to remove the cigarettes from his desk drawer, and she wouldn’t allow him to go out and purchase new ones. Mycroft was sure he’d thank her for it later, but in the moment all it did was frustrate him.

Anthea rapped on the doorframe lightly, pulling Mycroft out of his thoughts, and then stepped in through the open door. “Lady Smallwood has requested to see you,” she informed him.

Mycroft groaned. “What does she want?”

“I think it has something to do with the fact that no one else seems to be capable of getting anything done. Should I send her in?”

Mycroft sighed. He smoothed out the creases in his waistcoat and brushed his hair back out of his face, making sure he was presentable, and then said, “Very well. Let’s see what she has to say.”

Anthea nodded once, and then disappeared through the door again. Mycroft could hear the clicking heels of Lady Smallwood before she stepped into his office. In her standard blazer and pressed skirt, her hair arranged neatly in a bun on top of her head, she looked much more put-together than he felt. He gave her a tight smile, “Alicia. Do have a seat.”

She sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk, her posture completely straight, enhancing the dignified air that always seemed to trail after her like her sweet perfume. “Mycroft,” she said cordially. Her voice was brisk, business-like, “I assume we can skip the small talk?”

“Of course.”

“The council is full of morons,” she began.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mycroft said.

“Left to their own devices, they will never reach a decision. They’d rather prattle on about the potential risks and consequences than acknowledge the fact that we are not getting out of this without a losing a few assets. Allowances must be made for our oversight.”

“It is truly unfortunate that so many of our resources were involved in monitoring the French election,” Mycroft agreed. “I’m not sure how everyone missed it; surely MI6 should have caught such a major security breach.”

“I take it they were also otherwise occupied. At any rate, we cannot change the past.”

“At the rate the council is going, we may not be able to do much in the way of changing the future either.” Mycroft quipped.

“Precisely,” Lady Smallwood said. “We still don’t know who accessed our system, but our analysts are working on it. What I’m proposing, Mycroft, is that we get the council up off their lazy, aristocratic backsides and force their hand.”

“What you’re suggesting borders on mutiny.”

“If needs must, Mycroft. We both know the council is largely a boys’ club. On my own, I won’t pull much weight. But with you backing me, those buffoons may just listen. If nothing else, we may at least give them a push in the right direction.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, head cocked slightly. “Alright,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”

“We need to put more feelers out in the community. Our analysts are close to tracking the source of the hack, but we don’t know precisely what was lost. We need to get everyone in the same room, get everything on the table, and do so while showing the intelligence community that we are not shaken by this.”

Mycroft could see where her train of thought was heading, “You want to have an event, one where all the most dangerous people in Europe will be together in the same place without being able to cause a scene.”

“Surreptitious deals in back alleys or covert meetings in generic office buildings may have their uses, but on this scale we won’t have time to see them all one by one. Setting up that many meetings would be a challenge in and of itself. A gala, perhaps under the cover of a charity auction or something similar, shows them that we are not rattled, that we are willing to be hospitable, and allows us to talk to many people at once. It's much harder to lie when you don’t know if the man across the room is about to sell you out. And it won’t look odd to the masses, considering gala season is almost in full swing now.” Lady Smallwood had that glint in her eye, the calculated look Mycroft had seen on countless people in their line of business.

“If you propose your idea to the council,” Mycroft said after a moment, “then you will have my support.”

She nodded, “Good.” She stood, the conversation having reached its end, and said, “I will voice it in our next meeting.” She glanced at her watch, “We have a few hours to prepare. I should check to see if the analysts have that data for us yet. I will see you shortly.” She strode from his office.

The moment she was out of sight, Mycroft allowed his facade to drop and he slumped back down against his desk.

***

I won’t be home until late. Eat something, because I know you probably haven’t eaten today. There’s leftovers in the fridge. Love you. - GL

Mycroft read the text and then pocketed his phone with a sigh. He walked into the empty house, ignoring the kitchen, although his stomach churned guiltily, and headed upstairs to shower. He needed to scrub off the grime of the day, not to mention the uncomfortable feeling itching under his skin. Dealing with the council always unsettled him. Clinical detachment for the safety of Queen and country was one thing, but most of the council members were dispassionate about everything aside from their own best interests.

He stripped efficiently and stepped into the shower, turning the water on to near-scalding and hissing as it hit his bare skin. Slowly, his body began to relax under the hot spray, the physical tension bleeding away even as the stress of his mind remained. He slouched against the shower wall and closed his eyes. When he washed himself, he was rougher than normal, until his skin was rubbed raw. Somehow, even as his pale skin turned an angry shade of red under the blistering water, he still felt cold.

When he stepped out into the steam of the bathroom, he dried off and tied his dressing gown tightly around himself, shivering slightly. He dressed in his pajamas, and then pulled the dressing gown back over those. He was exhausted, but his brain was still racing, unable to quiet down, and in spite of the layers he couldn’t keep out the chill settling bone-deep into his body.

Gregory found him curled up on the rug in front of the fire a few hours later, staring into the flames. He sat down next to Mycroft, sliding his suit jacket off his shoulders and discarding it somewhere on the floor. Mycroft found he couldn’t even spare the energy to lecture Gregory on the importance of hanging it up. He startled slightly when he felt Gregory’s arm wrap around his shoulders, drawing Mycroft to his chest. “Hey,” Gregory murmured into his hair. “What are you still doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Mycroft said. “Today has been...trying. The whole week has been difficult, but today in particular seems to be getting to me.”

“You know I love you, but you look like shit. You need to sleep, love.”

Mycroft shivered and burrowed closer into Gregory’s warmth. Gregory stroked his back. “Did you eat today?”

Mycroft shook his head.

Gregory sighed, “I know it’s been bad lately, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mycroft snapped. He felt guilty when Gregory stiffened and moved to pull away. Mycroft gripped his arm tightly, not allowing him to let go, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I know you’re just trying to help.”

Gregory settled back down. “Do you think you could eat something for me now?” he asked gently.

Mycroft wanted to say yes. Dear god, did he want to say yes. But he was scrambling, trying to clutch onto any semblance of control that he could, and the idea of putting anything in his empty stomach set off echoing aches that coursed through his body. Staring into the fire, unable to meet Gregory's eyes, he shook his head.

“Okay,” Gregory said. “We’ll try again tomorrow, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. It was all he could do.

Gregory stood up, his warmth disappearing, and Mycroft’s shivering began anew. Gregory offered his hand out, “Come on, love. Let’s go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“That’s crap, and you know it. You look like you’re going to drop any minute.” He pulled Mycroft to his feet.

Even as he allowed Gregory to lead him to their bedroom, he said, “It’s too much, Gregory. I can’t…” He struggled to vocalize what was happening in his brain, the pulsing, inescapable noise of his mind racing without his consent.

Gregory paused, giving him a reassuring smile, “Hey. It’s okay. Just lie down, try to relax. If you can’t sleep, you can’t sleep, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”

Mycroft shed his dressing gown when they reached the bedroom, climbing under the covers and tucking them up to his chin. He looked away when Gregory stripped and changed into his pajamas. The bed dipped, and Gregory’s warmth came back. Mycroft plastered himself against Gregory’s chest, trying to maintain as much contact as possible to stay warm.

Gregory allowed it, holding Mycroft tight to his body. “You’re clingy today.”

“You’re warm,” Mycroft mumbled.

Gregory shifted to free a hand. He laid it against Mycroft’s forehead, checking his temperature and frowning, “You feeling okay?”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re freezing, you’re not eating, you probably haven’t slept anywhere near enough...love, your immune system is definitely compromised. You might be getting sick.”

Panic stabbed through Mycroft. He couldn’t be sick. He had work. Sickness was by far Mycroft’s least favourite way to lose control of his body. With just about everything else, there were measures he could take, but if he was sick there was nothing he could do except ride it out. He shuddered and said, “I'm not sick. I’m fine.”

“Even if you aren't sick, you’re clearly not fine,” Gregory said. “You hide it well, but I know you, love, I can see you're not in a great place. I’d suggest taking a day off to recharge, but I know you're not going to go for that.”

“I can't afford to leave work now. There's too much to do.”

“You’re not going to be much help to them in the hospital, sweetheart, and that's exactly where you're headed if you're not careful.” Gregory pressed a kiss to Mycroft's forehead and then added in a much softer voice, “I'm scared. It scares the shit out of me when you do stuff like this. And that's not me trying to blame you for it or guilt trip you. I just...I love you, Mycroft. I don't want to lose you.”

He may not have been trying to guilt trip Mycroft, but it worked anyway. From the back of his sleep-deprived, overworked, stressed-out mind, a memory overwhelmed his senses.

_“Shh, baby, it's okay,” David cooed. He wiped away Mycroft's tears with his thumb, tilting Mycroft's head up to look up at him. “I was just so worried about you. You know it scares me when you have to go to the hospital.”_

_“I'm sorry,” Mycroft whispered._

_“Hey, no more tears.” David gave him a smile, “How about you make it up to me, huh?” He pushed Mycroft down to his knees, and pulled his head forward with clear intent. Mycroft didn't fight him._

Between the anxiety and the exhaustion, Mycroft was lingering somewhere in a hazy region of his mind, thinking too much and not enough at the same time. It was a dangerous place to be, impulsive and prone to bad decisions. Which was why he didn't realize where he had instinctively moved his hand, the memory still echoing in his mind, until Gregory shoved him away and sat up, “Mycroft, what the hell?”

Mycroft flinched back like he'd been shocked. He curled into a tight ball and said to his knees, “I'm sorry.”

“Shit,” Gregory whispered, more to himself than Mycroft. He scooted a little closer, and laid his hand gently on Mycroft's shoulder, “Love? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. Could you look at me, please?”

Mycroft shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. He squeezed them shut. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he do anything right?

“Mycroft,” Gregory coaxed. “It's alright. I'm just worried and honestly a bit confused. Please look at me.”

Mycroft peered out at him with watery eyes. Gregory didn't look angry at him. He just looked concerned.

“There you are,” Gregory whispered. He stroked his hand down Mycroft's arm, “What was that about, love? We were talking, it was okay, and then you started looking...blank and you started groping me. Did I do something to upset you?”

It took a few tries for Mycroft to speak without choking. “I’m sorry I frighten you,” he said. “You shouldn't have to worry about your partner like this. I put too much on you, I ask too much from you. I wanted...I didn't think, I just...tried to make it up to you.” Parroting David's words made acrid bile rise in Mycroft’s throat. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes again.

“Oh,” Gregory's voice was breathless and heartbroken, and Mycroft bit back a distressed sound. He tensed when he felt Gregory's lips on him, irrationally worried for a moment that Gregory was planning on taking advantage of what Mycroft had been offering, but all Gregory did was pepper kisses all over his face and hair. “Oh, Mycroft, love, no,” he whispered. “I swear to you, you're not asking too much. I'm sorry if I made you think you were. I love you. You don't have to make anything up to me, sweetheart. I knew what I was getting into when we started this, and I wouldn't still be here if it wasn't worth it, if you didn't mean the world to me.”

Mycroft allowed the kisses, simultaneously wanting to pull Gregory closer but unable to, the angry voice in the back of his mind hissing, _You don’t deserve this. You’re pathetic._ He took a shaky breath, and then said, “I love you, too. You’re more than I deserve, Gregory.”

“I’m really not.” Gregory lay down again, facing Mycroft but not quite touching him. “Try to get some sleep, love. I promise things will look better in the morning.”

Mycroft sincerely doubted that, but he nodded anyway. Gregory gave him a small smile that couldn’t hide the worry on his face, and Mycroft forced himself to close the gap between them. It had the intended effect; Gregory relaxed, and within a few minutes his boyfriend was fast asleep. Mycroft waited a few minutes longer, and when he was sure Gregory wouldn’t wake again, he slid out of bed and pulled out his jogging clothes. His chest panged with guilt, but he ignored it. Everything was moving far too fast, spiralling out just beyond his grasp. He needed to _do_ something. He needed to quiet his mind. He needed to be good enough.

Quietly, Mycroft went downstairs.

***

Greg woke up alone. It took him a minute to process that Mycroft wasn’t lying next to him, and although his boyfriend often rose with the sun, Greg couldn’t help feeling uneasy that he wasn’t in their bedroom. Last night had been one of Mycroft’s worst, at least since he and Greg had been together. He had never seen Mycroft so scared, clinging so hard to reality without really grasping what was happening around him. There’d been a glazed look in his eyes, a haunted expression that had plagued Greg’s dreams.

He got out of bed and padded downstairs. Mycroft wasn’t in the kitchen, or the dining room, or the living room, and he hadn’t left any notes to tell Greg that he was going out. Greg’s footsteps increased in pace as his heart sped up, worried, until it finally occurred where he would probably find his boyfriend.

Any hopes that he was wrong were quashed when Greg pushed open the door to Mycroft’s exercise room. Mycroft was still dressed in his jogging clothes, sprawled in the armchair tucked into the corner of the room. Greg’s heart nearly stopped at the sight. Mycroft was paler than usual; in slumber he looked like death. The change from only a few days ago was drastic. Mycroft had gradually been getting better about taking care of himself, but the improvement wasn't all that much by comparison, considering where he’d been before. It was all too easy for him to slide downhill again. The only reassurance Greg had was that at least Mycroft was breathing.

Greg bent over the chair, shaking Mycroft’s shoulder lightly. He hoped the waver in his voice wasn’t as obvious as it sounded to his ears when he said, “Love? Mycroft, wake up.”

Very slowly, Mycroft blinked his eyes open. He squinted up at Greg, his expression unfocused. “Gregory?”

Greg knelt down, resting his forearms against the arm of the chair. “How long have you been down here?”

Mycroft started to look more awake, clear signs of guilt colouring his features. In a voice that could only be honest for all the shame it carried, he admitted, “I came down shortly after you fell asleep.”

Greg forced himself not to swear. Instead, as calmly as he could manage, he said, “I want to take you to the hospital.”

Mycroft’s face closed off, “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’m a bloody detective, Mycroft, and you didn’t make it to bed last night. If you didn’t care about me knowing, you wouldn’t have waited to sneak off down here, and that means you would have come back up when you were done so I wouldn’t find out. The fact that you didn’t tells me that you either weren’t physically strong enough to walk up a fucking flight of stairs, or that you passed out down here.” He stood up and took a breath, trying to rein in his anger.

Mycroft’s face was the impassive, clinical mask that irritated Greg more than any other facade he put up.  “I didn’t pass out,” he said haughtily. “I felt a bit dizzy, so I sat down to rest, and I happened to fall asleep.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital-”

“I said, I’m not going-”

“If you’re not going to listen to me, then maybe a doctor will convince you that this-”

“I’m not going to the bloody hospital!” Mycroft stood sharply. Even though he only had two inches on Greg, he seemed even taller with the intense glower he developed at the words. Greg took a step back without thinking about it, the end of his sentence caught in his throat. Mycroft hesitated, the anger fading from his eyes, but then his expression hardened again and he said, “I don't have time to waste on your _concern_. I need to get ready for work.” He stalked past Greg and out of the room, leaving Greg staring after him, reeling.

He had the sudden need to call Anthea, but his phone was still upstairs in their bedroom, and Greg couldn't make himself follow Mycroft. Instead, he went into the kitchen and pulled open the pantry.

He caught Mycroft again on his way out the door. Greg made a break for it when he heard Mycroft's footsteps on the stairs, snatching Mycroft’s umbrella from its stand on his way by, and skidding to a halt in front of the door, waiting. When Mycroft stopped in front of him, he held out his hand for the umbrella, his expression blank. Greg handed it over, and Mycroft made to push past him, but Greg sidestepped and blocked his path.

“I need to go, Gregory,” Mycroft’s jaw was tight, the only indication he wasn't as unaffected as he appeared.

Greg pressed a protein bar into Mycroft's free hand. “You haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours. Eat that right now and you can go.”

Mycroft let out a disbelieving laugh and moved to pass Greg again, and again Greg blocked the exit. He crossed his arms, “I'm serious, Mycroft.”

“You're being absurd.”

“Then let me watch you eat the fucking protein bar so you can get to work and tell Anthea that your boyfriend, who actually gives a shit if you pass out, is behaving ridiculously.”

“I don't have time for-”

“Then make time, Mycroft. You can keep arguing with me, making you even later, or you can eat that and I'll let you leave.”

“I thought you understood how important my work was,” Mycroft said coldly. “I suppose that was an overestimation of your abilities.”

“Insult me all you want,” Greg said, inwardly stung by the harsh words but refusing to give Mycroft an inch, “but you're leaving this house one of two ways: with that protein bar in your stomach, or in an ambulance.”

“Is that a threat? Are you threatening me, Gregory?”

“I’m saying that if you keep on like this, I'm going to get a phone call from Anthea telling me you're in the hospital again, and I'm going to feel like shit knowing I could do more to help you but you wouldn’t let me.”

Mycroft hesitated, and for just a moment a crack appeared in his mask. Then it sealed over again, and Mycroft broke open the wrapper of the protein bar with a look of contempt, “I'm only doing this so you won't make me late.”

“Yeah, I know,” Greg responded. He remained there, waiting until Mycroft had swallowed the last bite before moving out of the way, “I'll see you tonight?”

“Don't wait up.” Mycroft breezed past him out the door without kissing him goodbye.

Greg went for his phone. Aware Anthea would probably be in the car with Mycroft, he texted her rather than trying to call.

Mycroft's in a shitty place right now. Getting him to eat anything was almost impossible. - GL

He seems particularly irritable this morning. - A

We had a bit of a row. I told him I wanted to take him to the hospital, and he got angry. - GL

Mycroft hates hospitals. - A

I got that, yeah. - GL

Try and get something into him today, please? I’m worried about him. - GL

I will certainly try. - A

And keep him off the treadmill. He's been running again. - GL

Good to know. - A

I know it's top secret, but do you have any idea when this thing going on at work will end? I know he's done this before, and probably for longer, but if his body is starting to get used to him taking care of himself, then I'm not sure how long it'll be before it starts to shut down on him. - GL

I don't know how long this will last, but it's my job to look after Mycroft. I'll do my best. - A

Thanks. - GL

Concern about Mycroft dogged Greg’s thoughts. Even when he got to work and tried to push it from his mind, knowing he had to focus on the case at hand, he found worry creeping back into the corners of his brain, lurking there and distracting him. It was so bad that when Sherlock swept onto the crime scene, his face set to ‘scathing comment about Scotland Yard’s incompetence’ mode, he opened his mouth and then stopped when he noticed Greg. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he said coolly, “Trouble in paradise, Lestrade?”

“It's none of your business, Sherlock,” Greg snapped back. “You're here to catch a killer, right?”

“Killer _s_ ,” Sherlock said, easily distracted when the opportunity to prove someone wrong presented itself. “Look at the tread marks on the carpet.” He became absorbed in the case and said nothing more about Mycroft for most of the day.

Towards the end of the day, however, Greg volunteered to stay at the station past the end of his shift. There was still a killer (three, according to Sherlock) running loose, and the consulting detective needed someone from the department on hand in case he caught the trail.

Donovan, like Sherlock, had noticed Greg’s lack of focus, and argued, “He'll be fine on his own, and there's people watching out. You should get some sleep. You're going to be useless tomorrow if you're exhausted.”

“For once, Sergeant Donovan has made a good point,” Sherlock said. “Go home, Lestrade. More importantly, tell my brother to stop being a moron. I'm sure whatever this lovers’ spat is about is of little importance.”

“Fuck off, Sherlock,” Greg muttered under his breath. “Fine. I'll go home. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” Donovan said sarcastically. She left the room.

Greg threw on his coat, but Sherlock caught his arm before he could leave. His expression was serious and his voice was low when he said, “My brother is a danger to himself. If he's in a bad place, he won't accept help easily.”

“How would you know?” Greg snapped. “You didn't know shit until a couple months ago.”

“I know because Mycroft and I are more alike than I care to admit,” Sherlock said. “I know my own failings, even if I sometimes pretend I have none. And I know that when I'm at my lowest, when I'm using and I don't see a light at the end of the tunnel, just more pain and another syringe to make it stop, I never reach out for help. Not because I don't need it. Not because I don't want it. Because I don't think I deserve it. Mycroft's work, his eating disorder, this is his cocaine. Don't let it consume him.” On that note, he slipped out the door.

“I'm trying,” Greg said to the empty room, feeling angry and helpless and bitter all at the same time. He checked his phone, seeing no new texts from Mycroft or Anthea, and, with a sigh, headed in the direction of home.

***

Midnight approached. Hesitantly, Anthea said, “Sir? I think you should go home.”

“I'm not done,” Mycroft didn't even look up at her. He was struggling to focus on the report in front of him, the words blurring together before his eyes, but he knew he had to get through it.

Anthea placed her hand on top of the paper, and Mycroft looked up at her. “Yes, you are,” she said firmly. “You haven't listened to me at all today. You're unfocused, exhausted, and clearly in need of a hot meal and probably some cuddling from your boyfriend who, by the way, is seriously worried about you. Right now, you're not the man this country needs, Mycroft. You’ve been grooming me to replace you for years. Let me handle a couple pieces of paperwork and _go home_. Sir.”

Mycroft stared at her, vaguely aware his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. “Fine,” he said. “Call the car around.”

Anthea nodded, “Yes, sir.”

Mycroft almost ordered the driver to drop him off at his flat. He didn't want to face Gregory, and it was closer to his office. But he remembered the hurt look on Gregory's face that morning and how nervous Gregory always got when Mycroft didn't come home, and sentiment took hold of him and he told the driver, “Home, if you please.” He sat back against the leather upholstery, umbrella cradled between his knees, and willed himself to have the strength he needed.

***

Greg was roused from sleep by a soft thud and a muffled swear. He peered into the dark bedroom, “Mycroft?” He fumbled for the lamp and turned it on, bathing the room in a dim yellow glow. Mycroft was by the foot of the bed, looking sheepish and uncertain. He was half in his pajamas, and he pulled up the bottoms quickly with a faint blush.

“Stubbed my toe,” he murmured. “I didn't want to turn on the light and wake you.”

Greg struggled into a sitting position, groggy and vaguely cognisant of the late hour. “I wasn't sure you'd be home tonight.”

“I wasn't initially planning on it,” Mycroft admitted, “but Anthea was insistent and very convincing.”

“Thank god for Anthea.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed.

Greg patted the space next to him, “Come on, love. Come up here.”

Obligingly, Mycroft claimed his rightful place in bed. Unable to help himself, Greg reached out and found Mycroft's hand. He squeezed gently, “About this morning…”

“Surely this can wait,” Mycroft said, not looking at Greg. “It's late. I'm sure you want to sleep.”

“I definitely want to,” Greg agreed, “but if we don't talk now, I can't guarantee you won't slip away in the morning. This way, I know you have to talk to me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed. “I...I'm sorry, Gregory.”

Greg blinked in surprise, “What?”

“I'm sorry. I know what I said this morning hurt you. I do not think you're stupid, by any stretch of the imagination. You are far more perceptive than I would like, sometimes.”

“You think I'm upset about that?” Greg asked.

“You seemed...unhappy when I said it.”

“Of course I wasn't happy. You were lashing out at me when I knew you didn't believe what you were saying, all because you didn't want my help.”

Mycroft's jaw tightened. Greg worried he was going to get angry again, but instead he said, “I hate that you're seeing me like this.”

“Like what…?”

“While we have been together my work has been...shall we say...low-stress. There have been incidents, but nothing large-scale. You have never had the opportunity to see what happens to me when I become consumed by a crisis. You think that you've seen me at my worst, but I assure you it gets darker still. I have long since perfected my balancing act, Gregory, but it all hinges on me being alone.”

“But you're not alone.”

“And therein lies the crux of the matter.” Mycroft sighed, “Gregory, things at work...they are far from good. I can't...I can't give you any details, but we are in crisis mode. It...it feels as if my body is being consumed from the inside out. I am a resource to be tapped, that is all. When it gets like this, I run. I stop eating. I stop sleeping. I smoke, if I am able. I let the work consume me and I paste a smile on my face as it does because that is my job. That is all I am good for.”

“That's not true,” Greg protested.

“It does not matter if it is true,” Mycroft offered him a wry smile. “It's how I feel. Now, I find that the anxiety brought on by my work life is bleeding over into my personal life. I look at you, Gregory, and all I can think about is how much I must be disappointing you. I look at you and I feel like a failure-”

“Mycroft…”

“-and all I want to do is go back to how simple things were when I was with David.” Greg was sure his heart stopped at the words. Mycroft continued, “I am not willing to give you up. I love you too much, too selfishly, for that. But it was far easier when I felt like I was disappointing David. I skipped a meal and let him fuck me, and that satisfied the voice inside me. I look at you, look at the disappointment in your eyes, and all I want to do is goad you into shoving your cock into me and _using_ me like the worthless, pathetic, needy slut that I am.” Each word got sharper, like Mycroft was trying to puncture holes in the air as he spit them out.

There were so many things wrong with that thought that all Greg could do was gape at Mycroft. His mouth was open, but his tongue felt heavy and no words would come out. When he could manage to force something past his lips, all he could get out was, “Mycroft…”

Mycroft laughed bitterly, and when he pulled his hand out from under Greg’s, an action that sent another jolt of panic through Greg, it was to wipe away tears forming in his eyes. “It sounds horrible, doesn't it?” he whispered. “I love you. I love you, but right now all I can hear when I look at you is his voice in my head. 'You’re pathetic, My.’ 'If you weren't such a great lay, it wouldn't be worth it.’ 'Bend over and take it, My, you're fucking gagging for it aren't you, you useless whore.’ ‘You can’t do anything right, My, but this, at least, you’re good at.’”

Greg swallowed hard and tried again, “Mycroft, none of that is true.”

“True means precisely nothing to me right now, Gregory. True does not make me want to eat. It does not help me sleep. It does not stop me from imagining shoving my hand into your pants and showing you that I’m worth _something,_ even if it's only sex.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably, “You're worth so much more than that, Mycroft.”

“Am I? We're barely having sex, but you're constantly having to baby me and look after me. What could you possibly be getting out of it?”

“I love you,” Greg said. “I don't need to get anything else out of it. And I know that's a stupidly easy answer, but it's the truth.”

“Love won't fix me. Your saviour complex-”

“That’s not what this is about. I _know_ love doesn't magically solve your problems. This isn't some YA novel where the guy meets the girl and suddenly all their problems disappear by the power of _love_. This is real life, and in real life it doesn't work like that. But damn it, I love you, Mycroft, and while love doesn't mean a quick fix to your problems it _does_ mean that I'm going to be here, right by your side the whole time, helping you work them out. Because love is about support. It's about supporting each other even when the other person's hurting. It's about loving them anyway, knowing that maybe things will work out and maybe they won't, but you're going to try because you can't imagine giving up on them. It's _not_ about demeaning them, calling them useless or a slut just because you can, because you want sex or devotion.” Greg sighed, “You have anxiety. You have an eating disorder. You have shitty self-esteem, partly because of your family and partly because you’ve suffered a lot of abuse. Those are facts. But what's more important than that is that these past few months, I've seen you fighting to overcome it all, to get better because you _wanted to._ And I'm not disappointed in you. I'm impressed, because you're stronger than you think, Mycroft, and I am proud of every single step you take.”

“Even when I fall?” Mycroft asked quietly. “Even when I take two steps backwards for every one step forward?”

“Even then,” Greg said, “because you always get back up, and you always put yourself back on the right path. You're stubborn, and I know you're going to get past this.”

Mycroft looked like he didn't know what to say to that. Finally, he managed a small laugh that, while forced, was not entirely humourless, “You're surprisingly eloquent for nearly one in the morning.”

“Yeah, well, I might not even remember this conversation when I wake up. But it needed to be said.” He hesitated, and then kissed Mycroft's temple. “I’m going back to bed. Please don't sneak off again.” He lay back down.

Mycroft settled in next to him, and after a pause, Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft. “I don't always react the way I should. I know that.”

“But you're trying,” Mycroft murmured. “We're both trying, in our own ways.”

“Exactly.”

“Two imperfect puzzle pieces,” Mycroft said, “who just happen to fit together.”

Greg laughed and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, “Now who's too eloquent for one A.M.?”

“Go to sleep, Gregory.”

“Goodnight, Mycroft.”

***

Morning reminded Mycroft of just how much his head hurt when he avoided eating for more than one day. He still felt lightheaded, his brain throbbing even though he was lying down, the sun assaulting his vision even through his closed eyelids. Gregory’s arm felt heavy on his waist, and Mycroft pinned it there with his own arm, threading his fingers through Gregory’s where his hand rested against Mycroft’s stomach. Some of his anxiety had been allayed by Gregory’s words, but a great deal of it remained. There was still so much to do for work; planning of both the actual party and the more covert operations it would be concealing, mentally preparing himself for the dread of mingling (he would not be the one extracting information. He was to observe and put on appearances only, and that was by far the duller job), the scramble to reinforce the security of their system after the break-in, and that didn’t even include paying attention to all the unrelated, trifling matters that accompanied his job on any given day. Mycroft reasoned that so long as he held on to Gregory, he could convince himself that leaving bed and going downstairs to get in a quick run before work was not possible. It was flimsy logic, but Mycroft clung to it anyway.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand, and Mycroft fumbled it with his left hand, clumsily unlocking it and checking the message.

If I see you in the office before noon, I’m sending you directly home. I saw to it that Greg has the morning off as well. - A

Slowly and not without a great deal of effort, Mycroft typed a reply with his thumb.

You are a terrifying woman when you put your mind to something. But I appreciate the concern for my health and wellbeing. - MH

I will see you this afternoon, sir. Well-rested and fed. - A

Very well. - MH

“Mycroft?”

“Go back to sleep, darling,” Mycroft murmured, so as not to disturb Gregory further. “Anthea has given us the morning off.”

Gregory tightened his arm around Mycroft’s waist, squeezing his hand. “You’re staying?”

Mycroft replaced the phone on the nightstand. “I’m staying.” Sleeping was impossible. Now that he was awake again, Mycroft's brain was whirring at full power, but while falling back asleep couldn't happen, that didn't mean he couldn't lay there in Gregory's arms and attempt to relax.

It was over an hour before Gregory was roused from sleep. Mycroft could hear the change in his breathing even before his boyfriend asked, “What time is it?”

“It's about a quarter to nine.”

Gregory bolted upright, “Shit, I'm going to be late.”

Mycroft turned to face him and pulled him back down, “No, you're not. I told you, Anthea has given us the morning off.”

Gregory blinked, “You're...taking the morning off?”

“Under great threat, as you may imagine. The wrath of Anthea is not to be taken lightly.”

Gregory nodded absently and studied his face, “You okay?”

“You mean, am I in the same state I was last night? No. My thoughts have quieted in that regard, even if they have not faded entirely.”

Gregory brought his hand up to rest on the nape of Mycroft's neck, stroking gently through the sparse hair there. “Is that really what it sounds like in your head?”

“Not all the time. Only at my worst does it sound quite so bad. When my anxiety is less overwhelming, my hatred of myself is usually more targeted towards my appearance. The self-loathing in regard to my...sexual status is reserved for the highest levels. The feelings of failure are fairly consistent regardless of whether I am especially anxious or not.”

“Have you talked to your therapist about any of this?”

“Some. Not in as much detail as I should. I do apologise for putting it on you, though.”

“Don't,” Gregory said. “Yeah, it's heavy stuff, but I need to know it, you know? You don't have to do this alone.”

Mycroft offered him a small smile, “I know. I just forget, sometimes, that when you say you care about me, it means that you support and love me, not that you care about my body.”

“Well, I do, a bit,” Gregory admitted, “but not really in the way you're talking about. Which reminds me; if we've got the morning off, I want to make sure you eat a proper breakfast. Think you'd be up for that?”

Mycroft considered. His head really was pounding very badly, and his stomach was begging for something inside it. He shushed the hissing voice in his head and nodded, “I'd at least like to try.”

Gregory grinned, “That’s all I'm asking, love.” He made to get up, but Mycroft pulled him back down again.

“In a minute,” he murmured, snuggling closer. He threw a leg over Gregory's for good measure, ensuring he didn't move.

Gregory's hand moved to wrap around his back. “You’re not gonna try and feel me up again, are you?” he asked cautiously.

“No,” Mycroft assured him, tucking his cheek against Gregory's chest and listening to the strong heartbeat. “I just want to cuddle a bit. I feel bad for the way I behaved yesterday morning.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t great. But I shouldn't have gotten angry.”

“As we said last night: imperfect, but making an effort.”

Gregory kissed the top of his head, “I'm really glad you're realizing that I'm not perfect.”

“It occurred to me that putting you on a pedestal was unfair for both of us. You may not be perfect, but you're very good. And I can be satisfied with that.”

“As long as you're satisfied,” Gregory teased.

Mycroft shifted slightly, “I'll admit, I overreacted a bit in response to your concern. Hospitals…”

“Not a fan?”

“I have many bad memories associated with being in hospital. A great deal of them have to do with my eating disorder and David, given that he was prone to sitting by my hospital bed until I was actually able to leave it, making not-so-subtle comments about how my own weakness had landed me there in the first place. But others are about Sherlock, about the times he overdoses or gets injured on a case and I risk losing my baby brother. I can't stand to set foot in a hospital if I can avoid it.” He shuddered.

Gregory kissed the top of his head. “All the more reason to take care of yourself,” he said.

“And yet,” Mycroft sighed.

“How about you go take a shower and I go downstairs and start breakfast?” Gregory suggested. “That way we can start the day off with you taking care of yourself.”

“That sounds...reasonable.” Mycroft squeezed Gregory a little more tightly, reluctant to let go, and then forced himself to release his boyfriend. “I'd offer to let you join me, but-”

“But we both know that'd be a terrible idea,” Gregory finished. He stretched as he stood, and kissed Mycroft's cheek. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you're done.”

Obediently, Mycroft went to shower. He hadn't last night, due to the hour, and it was a relief to feel the hot water on his skin. He pushed away thoughts of work, barring them behind an iron gate which he then sealed with a thick padlock. He was going to be anxious the rest of the day anyway. He had a few minutes to himself now, and as steam billowed out into the bathroom and water ran in thick rivulets over his body, Mycroft was determined to make those few minutes his own. Gregory's reassurance was helping to ease the anxiety. It didn’t eliminate it, but it made it a little easier to bear.

As his thoughts turned to Gregory, Mycroft felt a heat that had nothing to do with the water pool in his stomach. He glanced down, biting his lip and swallowing hard. He rarely engaged in self-pleasure, and when he did it was usually clinical, pure release. However…

Hesitantly, he reached for his cock, which twitched in his hand. He gave it a slow stroke, and as it began to firm up under his ministrations, he considered what might have happened had he _actually_ offered for Gregory to join him in the shower. He felt the phantom sensations of Gregory slipping in behind him, plastering his warm body to Mycroft's back and pressing kisses along his shoulder blades. Gregory would be gentle, like always, murmuring the question into his ear and waiting for Mycroft's quiet consent before sliding his hand down Mycroft's front to grasp him. He wouldn't be able to help pressing himself against Mycroft, rutting against his body for some relief.

_That's it, My. Fucking take it, baby._

The phantom hands gripped too tight, the mouth biting too hard, and Mycroft let go of himself with a gasp, bracing against the shower wall and shuddering. Right. That was why it was a bad idea. Even alone, in his fantasies, David hovered like a spectre, and Mycroft was too vulnerable right now to keep him at bay.

He finished showering quickly, but he didn't get dressed. Mentally glaring at the spectre in his head, he pulled on a pair of pants, tied his dressing gown over them, and ventured downstairs to find his boyfriend.

Gregory looked up when Mycroft entered the kitchen, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Tempting fate?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Mycroft responded. He circled the island, peering over Gregory’s shoulder to see what he was making. Pancakes. With banana smiley faces.

Gregory turned to face him, “You know exactly what I mean.” He gave Mycroft’s dressing gown a pointed look, his eyes trailing from the tiny sliver of Mycroft’s chest that was exposed down to his mostly bare legs. Mycroft felt the urge to cover himself and politely told it to fuck off.

“You know me,” Mycroft murmured instead. He lifted his hands to trace along Gregory’s chest, stroking down his sides. He leaned in for a kiss and then finished, “I like to push myself.”

“That you do.” Gregory cleared his throat, steering Mycroft back a half-step. “You sure you don't want to put a shirt on? Or some trousers?”

Mycroft blinked at him in faux-innocence, “I thought you liked my legs?”

Gregory let out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head, “Christ, I really do.” His hand dipped to Mycroft’s thigh, where he ran his fingers along the line where fabric ended and met skin, his calloused hands rough against Mycroft’s softer flesh. “You’re spoiling me, love,” he said.

“Really?” Mycroft said. “I rather thought I was teasing you.” He grinned, and Gregory gave his own smile in answer.

“That too,” he said. “You ready to eat?”

Mycroft nodded, but rather than sit at the island, he took his plate and adjourned to the dining room. Gregory followed him, and they took their usual seats. Mycroft stretched his leg out and found Gregory’s, which was still sheathed in the silk of his pajama bottoms. Gregory held still, eyeing him warily, as Mycroft pressed their legs together.

“Do relax, Gregory,” Mycroft said. “This isn’t an ill-advised seduction.” He speared one of the banana slices and placed it delicately on his tongue. When he swallowed it with little difficulty, he felt some of the tension bleed from his body, and he cut the first bite of his pancakes.

Gregory copied the motion, although he still watched Mycroft as he did so. After he swallowed his first mouthful, he said, “So what brought this on, then? This not-seduction that involves you in a dressing gown teasing me with your bare legs?”

“I need to be more comfortable around you in various states of undress. It seemed as good a time as any to test that.” Mycroft bit back a moan as he took another bite of the pancakes. They really were delicious, and he knew it was only in part because he hadn’t eaten. Gregory was an excellent cook.

“I’m not sure ‘need’ is the best word for it. And is now really the best time? After last night?”

“That was last night. This is this morning.”

Gregory still looked uncertain. Mycroft set down his fork (a bit reluctantly, which was a good sign) and said firmly, “This isn’t about sex, Gregory.” He paused, and then allowed, “Well, perhaps it has a little to do with sex, but I’m hardly touching you.”

“You don’t actually need to be touching to have sex,” Gregory said under his breath.

Mycroft filed that away under ‘things to explore later’ and insisted, “You were the one who wanted me to be more comfortable in my body. This is just one avenue of exploration, and it is a safe one. I can always put more clothes on.”

Gregory looked like he wanted to argue further, but he obviously didn’t have anything to say to that because he just shook his head and said, “As long as you’re comfortable.” He did, however, rub his bare foot lightly against Mycroft’s under the table.

Had it not been childish, Mycroft would have stuck out his tongue at the spectre in his head. However, he was an adult, even in his mind where no one could see, and so refrained. The spectre faded into the background and Mycroft returned to devouring his breakfast.

“Slow down a bit,” Gregory advised. “You’ll hurt your stomach if you try to eat too fast after you haven’t put much in it for a couple days.”

Mycroft slowed down, and Gregory made another request, “Could you talk to Dr. Trevelyan about some of the stuff you were talking about last night when you see her this week? You said you’d told her a little, but if it’s affecting you this much I think you should talk about it more with her.”

Rather than speak around a mouthful of food, Mycroft nodded. When he swallowed, he said, “I had planned to do so anyway. I must confess, I had considered cancelling my appointment, considering how hectic work has been, but last night proved that it would be a mistake to do so.”

“Good,” Gregory nodded. “I’m glad you’re still going.”

“Speaking of work plans,” Mycroft said. “I expect I’ll be out next Saturday night. Not the upcoming one, the thirteenth, but the following one.”

“Oh? You’re not going on one of your work trips, are you?” Gregory sounded cautious, and rightly so, considering the way Mycroft had fallen back on bad habits during his last work trip. It would be even worse now, while still working through the stress he was under at the moment.

“It’s nothing like that,” Mycroft reassured him. “It’s just an event I must, unfortunately, attend, that’s all.”

“What sort of event?”

“The kind I’m not at liberty to discuss with you,” Mycroft said lightly, but with an air of warning in his voice.

Gregory nodded, “Right. Top secret work stuff again.”

Mycroft didn’t fail to notice the hint of upset in his boyfriend’s tone, and he said gently, “I would tell you if I could. I don’t like keeping secrets from you, my darling. I can tell you it is a high profile event, a gala that all the most influential people in England, as well as other parts of Europe, will be attending. I can tell you that it’s a lot of standing around being terribly bored and making mind-numbing small talk. But I can’t tell you why work insists that I go.”

“England comes first, I know.”

Mycroft reached out and took his hand, “I don’t like putting you second, Gregory. We both have intense jobs, and they are important ones. Sometimes I can allow myself to think of you, of us, before my responsibilities, but that is not always the case.”

“I know.” Gregory’s grip on his hand was tight. His face was screwed up in an expression of frustration. “I just wish we didn’t have to choose. That’s part of what ruined my marriage, me putting my work first.”

“Well, the other part was that she was a biphobic, cheating tramp who didn’t care a lick for your feelings or your family. I’d say that is the greater evil of the two.”

Gregory laughed and withdrew his hand, “That’s a tiny bit harsh.”

“Is it?” Mycroft asked mildly. “I rather thought I was being _nice_.” He smirked.

“Amelia cares about our daughters. The rest I’ll give you, but our family was important to her. The girls were why we stayed together so long, trying to make it work.” Gregory sighed, “Feels like wasted time, now. But I had to try, you know?”

“I understand,” Mycroft said, even though he also agreed with Gregory's statement about wasted time. “You are a family man, regardless of who that family may entail. And, as evidenced by recent conversations, you aren't one to throw in the towel when things get tough. You would rather try and fail a thousand times than give up, even if, perhaps, you should.”

“You deducing me again?” Gregory teased.

“It's hardly deduction when one knows you as well as I do,” Mycroft replied. “Even Amelia should have been able to tell you that much about yourself when you were married.”

“Yeah, well, like you said,” Gregory smiled ruefully. “Amelia didn't care much how I felt about anything.”

Mycroft toyed with a thought, not wanting to ask but desperate for an answer. Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “Were you ever happy together? I mean, you must have been at some point, or you wouldn't have gotten married.”

“I mean, lots of people marry people they aren't happy with,” Gregory pointed out.

“Dear god, why?” Mycroft didn't doubt it, but he couldn't fathom forming a commitment like that with someone you didn't at least _like_. Unhealthy though it had been, he had been very much in love with David. His parents loved each other. Why would someone go through the hassle of the wedding and marriage license if not for love? Then again, political alliances and the like were occasionally bound in marriage, so there had to be some benefits to the practice itself, if not the partner.

Gregory shrugged, “Dunno. But, since you asked, yeah, I think we were happy at one point. Amelia did have depression, but she was working through it, and when we were together, a lot of the time she just seemed to light up from the inside. She liked it when I sang for her, and we had a lot of fun.”

“Was the sex good?” Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from asking. He was definitely a masochist.

Gregory looked surprised that he'd asked, but answered honestly, “Yeah, it was. Especially in the beginning. But the sex wasn't why I liked her so much. Sure, it was great, but the thing that I really loved about Amelia was her laugh. She loved to laugh, and I'd do just about anything to hear it. Made a right fool of myself a lot.”

“So what changed?” Mycroft knew why he was asking, but he didn't quite want to admit it, to himself or out loud.

Gregory didn't make him. He sighed, looking lost in the memories, “A couple months after we got married, Amelia found out I was bi. I hadn't told her before because I hadn't really thought it mattered. We ran into an ex of mine, Cedric. First boy I dated, actually. When she realized we'd been together, she started asking me a lot of questions, getting defensive. Finally I lied and told her it was just some questioning I'd done in high school, and she didn't like it, but she accepted it. We stopped trusting each other after that, started keeping secrets. Eventually we did have a row where I told her that no, it wasn't a phase, I'm bi, but I don't think we ever really recovered from that loss of trust. I think that's what killed our relationship.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding, studying his mostly empty plate. “Hey,” Gregory said quietly, and Mycroft looked up at him. “That's not what's happening here.”

“It'd be very easy for you to stop trusting me,” Mycroft pointed out. “My job demands I keep a great deal from you.”

“Different kind of trust,” Gregory said. “Your work? That's all background. I need to trust you as my partner. Everyone has a few secrets. I may not like it, but as far as confidentiality goes, our work isn't that different. You just have...you know...way higher clearance than I do. So I get not being able to say things about it. But I trust that you're here for me, that you're in this with me as my boyfriend. And I don't think you're going to betray that trust.”

Mycroft didn’t have a response to that. After a beat of silence, Gregory asked, “You taking Anthea to your work thing?”

Mycroft nodded, “She usually accompanies me.”

“As your date?”

“Why?” Mycroft asked. “Are you jealous?”

“We just mentioned trust,” Gregory said. “‘Course I’m not jealous of _Anthea_. You’re gay, love, and I’m fairly confident she’s a woman. I’m just curious how it works, is all, considering everyone thinks you’re married.”

“Oh.” Mycroft turned the question over in his mind and then said, “At events like these, it’s always difficult to tell precisely what sort of person is being brought as a date. Sometimes it is a significant other, sometimes a personal assistant, sometimes a bodyguard. We do not ask questions about it. After a few drinks, the trophy wives and husbands often get gossipy, but even then it is impossible to tell if it is truth or fiction. Most in our line of work are notoriously good actors.”

“If some people bring their partners…” Gregory trailed off.

Mycroft shook his head, “I would much prefer you not come, Gregory.”

“Can I ask why not?”

“Because this one will be exceedingly dull for you, given that I will be working most of the evening, and I don’t think having a detective inspector in a room full of spies, assassins, and two-faced diplomats is the best idea, for you or for them. I’ll take you to the next one that is more pleasure than business. I promise.”

Gregory looked satisfied with that answer. “It’s probably for the best,” he agreed, although there was still the tiniest bit of disappointment in his voice.

Mycroft smiled at him affectionately, “It is. But don’t think I don’t eagerly await the day I can dress you up in a fitted tuxedo and show you off. You’ll make excellent arm candy, Gregory.”

“Yeah?” Gregory grinned at him, displeasure forgotten.

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, picturing it with satisfaction. “I daresay you’ll break quite a few hearts.”

“There’s only one heart I care about, and I definitely don’t want it broken.”

“I sincerely hope it’s mine,” Mycroft said playfully.

“‘Course it is.” Gregory glanced at the clock, and then looked resigned. “Nearly time to head to work.”

Mycroft checked to make sure. “So it is,” he said. He stood up from the table, his plate long since empty, “Thank you for breakfast, Gregory. And...everything else.”

“‘S what I’m here for,” Gregory gave him a lopsided grin. “Now, go on. I know you’re ready to get to work.”

Mycroft’s anxiety certainly was calling him in that direction, but the other side of him was quite content. He rounded the table to kiss Gregory, his lips tasting of syrup and bananas. “I will see you tonight,” he murmured.

“See you then,” Gregory responded. “I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling.” Pleased, Mycroft left to prepare for work. He had a feeling the day would be far better than the previous one.


	3. Just Wanna Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets some bad news at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the month-long hiatus! Between finals and graduation I was completely wiped (not to mention, Lord of the Rings stole my soul). But I'm back, and I'm going to try to focus on this for the summer, so hopefully updates will be in regular intervals again. Thank you guys for being patient! I'm not thrilled with this chapter, but have it anyway, and hopefully I'll get the next one up next week.   
> As usual, not Brit-picked so let me know if there are any problems.

“I keep forgetting that you own casual clothes,” Gregory murmured, rubbing his thumb over the soft cotton covering Mycroft’s thigh. They were curled up on the couch together, eating Chinese takeaway, and Mycroft was wearing his comfiest tracksuit bottoms, the ones he reserved for lounging about the house on rare lazy weekends. He was pleased that his appetite had finally returned and stabilized after flitting in and out for several days, and his anxiety had finally settled back to manageable levels. Both because of that and because of the dreaded event he had to attend that night, Mycroft had requested as relaxed an evening as possible with Gregory before he had to get suited up and go into battle. He never ate at such functions; the food was always far too rich for him to stomach. And while tuxedos, when tailored properly, did enhance his figure, they were hardly the most comfortable thing to wear. Mycroft was dreading putting it on.

“I must admit, I’m having second thoughts about bringing you,” Mycroft said. “I don’t know if I can take such dreadful boredom on my own. Anthea may have her work cut out for her, keeping me awake.”

“You’ll be fine,” Gregory said. “And I’ll come with you next time. As entertaining as I’d be, I don’t think your boss would like me distracting you all night.” He paused, brow furrowing, and asked, “Do you have a boss?”

“I’m not the Queen, Gregory. Even I have people whom I must answer to.”

“You’re not all-powerful then?” he teased.

Mycroft smiled slyly, “I didn’t say that.”

Gregory laughed. He pulled Mycroft a little closer to him, an impressive feat considering Mycroft was practically in his lap as it was. Gregory was clearly enjoying the contact, likely because there had been no evenings home together. Work had kept both rushed off their feet, and they both went to bed late and rose early, leaving very little time to just relax and enjoy each other's company.

“Did Sherlock solve that case for you, finally?” Mycroft asked idly. “The one with the peculiar carpet stains that’s been bothering you all week?”

“I solved that one, thank you very much,” Gregory huffed. “Sherlock just pointed us in the right direction.”

“Of course,” Mycroft placated him. “I don’t doubt your skills, Detective Inspector. In fact, I hear there’s talk of a promotion soon?”

Gregory shook his head, “Not for me just yet. Even if I was offered, I’d probably turn it down. Not ready to have most of my days spent behind a desk, you know?”

“Someday, then?”

“Why?” Gregory eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not pulling strings, are you?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to shake his head, “Of course not. I agreed not to interfere in your work, and besides that, you’d never forgive me if you landed the job on anything other than your own merit. Not that you need anything else, I will remind you. You’re a very capable detective, Gregory.”

“High praise, Mr. Holmes,” Gregory grinned, nosing along Mycroft’s jawline. Mycroft tilted his head back, allowing Gregory access to place a row of kisses down his neck. “How you feeling?” Gregory asked. “Anxiety not too bad?”

“It’s no worse than usual before an event like this.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine, Gregory. Although I suspect I’ll be more than fine if you keep doing that.” Gregory had found his pulse point, nipping gently at it and sucking on it in turns. Mycroft felt his body respond to the attention, but the clock caught his eye and he said regretfully, “As much as I’d love to continue this, I’m afraid I must prepare to leave now.”

“You’ve got a little time.”

“Yes, and I’ll need that little time to get into my ridiculous outfit.”

“You wear suits every day,” Gregory reasoned. His hand slid higher on Mycroft’s thigh. “By now you’re a very efficient dresser.”

“A tuxedo is not a suit, Gregory.” He removed Gregory’s hand, standing up, “A rain check, darling.”

Gregory leaned back on the couch, “Go get ready, then. I want to see you before you leave, though. I bet you look stunning in a tux.”

“You think I look stunning in everything.”

Gregory grinned, “I can’t help it if you’re gorgeous.”

“I am-”

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Gregory interrupted Mycroft’s dissent. “Sorry, that’s a fact. And you’re all about facts, so you don’t get to tell me I’m wrong tonight.”

“You’re being nonsensical.”

Gregory surged forward, standing to tug Mycroft into another kiss. When he released him, Gregory said, “Gorgeous. I don’t make the rules.”

“Stop distracting me,” Mycroft scolded, untangling himself from his boyfriend, but there was no malice in his voice.

“Am I distracting you?” Gregory laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave.”

“Shameless,” Mycroft muttered affectionately, and he gave Gregory a final, brief peck on the lips before he went to change.

It took him less time than he had anticipated to get dressed, but still longer than it would have had he been wearing a standard three-piece suit. He checked his phone as he returned downstairs. Anthea had not yet texted him to inform Mycroft of her arrival.

Gregory was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his hands in his pockets, and when he caught sight of Mycroft he whistled. Mycroft blushed, and Gregory received him on the last step, pulling him down with a hand on either hip. “I was right,” he said in a low voice. “You’re bloody breath-taking.”

“You think so?” The playful banter was one thing; Mycroft could dismiss Gregory as being silly when he joked like that. It was another thing entirely to hear Gregory’s voice now, softer and serious and all too sincere. Mycroft didn’t think he’d ever get tired of hearing Gregory praise him in that voice. Even if believing the words was difficult sometimes, the tone of voice made Mycroft feel warm, like butter was melting inside of him.

“Trust me, love,” Gregory said. “You look hot.”

Mycroft studied him, taking in the dilated pupils, the slightly parted lips, and the way Gregory’s trousers were starting to tent ever so slightly, the last of which was a more severe reaction than Mycroft had expected and probably had more to do with proximity and residual tension than Mycroft’s outfit. He glanced at the time, decided he had a few minutes to spare, and used Gregory’s grip on him to back his boyfriend against the wall. Gregory looked confused for a moment, but then Mycroft drew him into a deep kiss and cupped him through his trousers, and Gregory quickly got the message.

“I thought you didn’t have time for this,” Gregory said against his lips. “Shouldn’t you be going?” The protest was weak, especially considering the way Gregory’s hands tightened on Mycroft’s hips as he said it.

“I have a few minutes. It’s not as much time as I would like, but it’s enough.” Mycroft unbuttoned Gregory’s trousers and slipped his hand inside, mindful not to mess up his sleeve, curling his fingers around the rapidly hardening flesh and giving it a teasing stroke. “Besides,” he whispered, “call it incentive.”

“Incentive?” Gregory asked. He leaned back against the wall even as his hips thrust into Mycroft’s hand, which was stroking in earnest now.

Mycroft nibbled at Gregory’s earlobe, the spot having quickly become one of his favourites to tease now that exploring was on the menu. “Incentive for me,” he explained softly, intentionally making his voice go breathy in that way that made Gregory’s knees weak, “to not die of boredom during the party. I fully expect you to return the favour later.”

“Christ, Mycroft,” Gregory swore, his hands coming up to cling to Mycroft’s shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that. Shit.”

Mycroft added a little twist on the end of his stroke, then swiped his thumb over the head, and Gregory cried out, spilling over Mycroft’s fist into his pants. Mycroft withdrew his hand and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, cleaning himself off. Gregory was still panting slightly, looking dazed. Mycroft’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he realized it was not the first text he had missed when it was accompanied by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Mycroft pressed one last kiss to Gregory’s lips and then moved to the door, although he was vaguely aware of his boyfriend following him down the hall.

Anthea stood on the doorstep, tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed over a gorgeous and very shapely black dress. “I do apologize for keeping you,” Mycroft said. “I was attending to an urgent matter.”

Anthea glanced around him at Gregory, raising her eyebrow, “I see.”

Gregory blushed and fixed his trousers, “Hey, Anthea. Nice dress.”

“Thank you.” She offered out her arm to Mycroft, “Shall we?”

Mycroft took it, “Don’t wait up, Gregory. I’ll likely be home very late.”

“Don’t worry,” Anthea winked at Mycroft’s boyfriend. “I’ll have him home by midnight.”

Gregory chuckled, “Have fun, you crazy kids.” He closed the door behind them, and Mycroft and Anthea made for the car.

Once seated and on their way, Anthea said delicately, “Urgent matter?”

“I could hardly leave him in that state,” Mycroft smirked at her. “It would have been cruel.”

“You still haven’t told me if he’s any good.”

“What does it matter to you? Are you looking to expand your horizons? I do worry Stella might get jealous.”

“Well, your boyfriend is a bit old for her tastes, but she does like to watch.” The corner of Anthea’s mouth twitched up into a smile, “I wouldn’t ask you to loan him to us, though. From what he’s told me, you don’t share well.”

“Have you two been gossiping about me?” Mycroft asked.

“Did you expect any less?”

“I expected a modicum of professionalism.”

Anthea snorted, “We threw professionalism out the window a long time ago, Mycroft, well before you introduced me to Greg.”

“At this rate, I’d almost expect him to be best man at your wedding.”

“Over you? Never.” She grinned at him, and he smiled affectionately back. “So?” she prompted.

“So?”

“Is he any good?”

Mycroft blushed, “That’s hardly your concern-”

“Oh, come on!” Anthea needled. “I’m your best friend, Mycroft, other than him. That’s what best friends do. They tell each other about their partners. Especially when they’ve started getting laid.”

“Is it?” Mycroft asked mildly. “Perhaps I haven’t missed all that much in not having many friends, then.”

Anthea elbowed him in the ribs, “You know you want to tell me. I bet he’s good.”

“He is...exceptional,” Mycroft admitted.

“Exceptional, huh?” Anthea grinned lasciviously. Mycroft’s flush deepened.

“I may be slightly bias in my judgements,” he said. “It’s not as if I’ve had many pleasant amorous experiences in the past.”

That sobered Anthea up, “Right. Sorry.”

Mycroft shook his head, “Don’t be. Gregory and I are...working around it, and I’ve discussed it a great deal with Dr. Trevelyan. It’s nice to begin accepting that my past does not define my future.”

Anthea was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “I'm glad you're getting help, Mycroft. From Greg and professionally. You seem a lot happier now, more so than I've ever seen you before.”

“I am happier now,” Mycroft said. He chuckled, “There was a point not too long ago where I believed I would die alone, without the concern of my family and utterly miserable to my last breath. Now I have Gregory, Sherlock and I are on civil terms, and even my mother is becoming more agreeable.”

“And I'm here,” Anthea put in.

“So you are,” Mycroft agreed. “You've been with me for so long. I know I don't always appreciate you enough, but rest assured I am very thankful for your friendship.”

The car slowed to a stop, and Anthea said, “We’re here. Ready, sir?”

“I do believe I am.” He stepped out of the car, and this time is was his turn to offer his arm out for Anthea to take. She hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow and together they walked into the hall.

It was already packed with people, all in formal evening attire and many with champagne flutes in their hand. To anyone short of a genius, it would be impossible to tell what the true purpose of the event was. Even to Mycroft, who had helped plan it, it looked like any other stuffy, formal gala. The surreptitious looks and nervous fidgeting, brought on in this case by so many spies, bureaucrats, and politicians in one place with so much at stake, might have been a tip off had they not been common gestures at other events where espionage was not the main concern of the evening. People hid many secrets in both work and personal lives, and there was nothing like a fancy formal event to make one nervous about it all being uncovered.

Lady Smallwood greeted Mycroft and Anthea by the steps, noticeably without a companion of any sort, not even a bodyguard, and in a shimmery silver dress with a low back, not tacky and sequined but elegant in a way that suited her perfectly. “Mycroft,” she said warmly. “So glad you could make it.” She kissed his cheek, and he allowed her to do so, observing the formalities that he so detested about these events. In his ear, she murmured, “Our agents are in place and the procedure should begin any moment now. If we’re as good as we pretend to be, then it should be completely unnoticeable.” She pulled away and smiled at Anthea, “Good to see you, dear.”

“And you, ma’am,” Anthea said politely, in deference to Lady Smallwood’s status.

About halfway through the operation, when Mycroft was on his “second” glass of wine (Mycroft valued his position too much to actually drink, but people’s lips loosened a great deal more if they believed you were inebriated, and it would have looked odd if he spent the whole night without a drink in his hand), he began to get the feeling that something was wrong. The operation ran as smoothly as could be expected; it was subtle, with pairs drawing off from the main room every now and again and returning quietly without bringing attention to themselves. But each time one of her underlings slipped past Lady Smallwood and whispered something to her, a frown crossed her face before she smoothed it back into a charming smile again.

Anthea noticed Mycroft’s distress as he watched the other woman, and she plucked the wine glass from Mycroft’s hand and drew him to his feet. He blinked at her in confusion. Anthea dragged him towards the dancefloor as the band slid smoothly into the next song, and Mycroft automatically adjusted his stance to match the waltz, even as he protested softly, “Anthea-”

“At least one dance every time you take me to one of these things,” Anthea interrupted him. “That’s what we agreed on.”

She was not wrong. Mycroft was not normally one for dancing, and usually declined it entirely when in such company, but Anthea loved to waltz and insisted that it kept up appearances, and so he always gave in and allowed her at least one dance each time she accompanied him to an event like this one.

Even as they danced, Mycroft couldn’t help glancing towards Lady Smallwood whenever he was facing her way. In his distraction, Anthea shifted them so that she was leading, and forced Mycroft to turn away. “When she has something to say to you, she’ll come and tell you,” Anthea said. “No use worrying until you know there’s something to worry over.”

“Yes, that is absolutely how anxiety works,” Mycroft said dryly. Anthea gave him a look.

As the band ended the song and transitioned into the next, Mycroft felt a tap on his shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” Lady Smallwood asked Anthea.

“Not at all,” Anthea handed Mycroft over before he could say anything, and went to sit on the sidelines again, one leg crossed over the other and her drink (non-alcoholic, of course) back in her hand as she watched Mycroft like a good assistant, a vaguely amused smile gracing her face.

Mycroft was reluctant to indulge his co-worker in a dance, given that it was not necessary to exchange information that way, but his feet were already stepping to the rhythm without him telling them to. Ever since the offer of drinks, Mycroft had struggled to avoid any possible situation where Lady Smallwood might proposition him again, especially situations (like dancing) that could be construed as him having a romantic or sexual interest in her. He was unsure if Lady Smallwood was aware he was gay, and he didn’t want to flat-out refuse her, as turning her down so abruptly might offend her and she was a connection he sorely needed to keep. Between Mycroft temporarily deactivating her status on nothing but Sherlock’s word and the unfortunate mess that was the Sherrinford situation, they were already on thin ice.

“Do you have anything to report to me, Alicia?” Mycroft asked, hoping that if nothing else, reminding her they were there for work would save him. “I do hate the tedium of reviewing data with the underlings, but if we’ve recovered what was lost then I suppose it will be worth it.”

Her expression turned grim. “We’re still trying to determine exactly where the hack came from, but it seems the information is already being distributed. A variety of sources have found different pieces, and it does not bode well for us.”

“In what way?”

“The files that were accessed were largely...personal,” Lady Smallwood explained. “Even I don’t have access to all of the information in them.”

“When you say personal files…” Mycroft suddenly developed a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Family ties, some safe houses, things like that. Things that people like us put in place to keep ourselves and our loved ones safe.”

Mycroft fought to keep his body relaxed, although the next turn in the dance was a bit sharper than intended. “I’m sure it will be fine,” Lady Smallwood said confidently. “All the appropriate targets have been spoken to tonight, and if nothing else, it is likely that we will very soon track down the culprits and discourage them from ever attempting it again.”

“The information will still be out there,” Mycroft pointed out.

“So we will recover what we can, and what we can’t we will turn over. We have protocols in place for this, Mycroft.” She gave him a peculiar look, “You know that.”

He did, but before he had very little to lose. Sherlock could fend for himself, his parents had a top-notch security system and agents who checked in on them discretely from time to time, and he had thoroughly erased all paper and digital familial ties between himself and Eurus. But Gregory did not have those same protections. Mycroft made a mental note to fix something with his security team as soon as possible.

“You’re right,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I’m sure this will all blow over soon.”

“Then we’ll be able to get back to the dull part of our jobs.” It sounded like an attempt at a joke, so Mycroft smiled weakly. Silence fell between them, the update on the mission over and the dance still playing on. Mycroft wondered how much longer the song could possibly be. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or if Lady Smallwood was actually pulling him closer. He kept his smile up as best he could, knowing it did not reach his eyes, and wished he could be at home in Gregory’s arms. As the dance finally began to draw to a close, Lady Smallwood said, “You never did get back to me on drinks, Mycroft.”

His heart sank. “I have been busy,” he responded carefully.

“I do wish you’d give it some more thought,” she pressed. “I am _very_ interested in hearing your decision.” The music swelled, then ended, and Mycroft freed himself from her arms as politely as possible.

Rather than give her the honest answer, Mycroft murmured, “I shall consider it. Excuse me.” He fled.

When he reached the table where Anthea was sitting, sipping her mocktail and watching with obvious enjoyment, she said, “You should tell her, you know. It’s not nice to lead her on.”

“I’m not leading her on,” Mycroft muttered. “I’ve expressed no interest whatsoever.”

“Just tell her you’re gay and be done with it,” Anthea said. “Or tell her you’d love to go to drinks with her, as long as your boyfriend can come too. She’s just going to keep at it until she hears what she wants.”

Mycroft sighed, “I will tell her soon. I fear the situation right now is too tense between us, as far as business relations go. I cannot afford to alienate her further.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“That is not a risk I can take. Not yet.”

Anthea rolled her eyes. She swayed to her feet and said, “I suppose you’re ready to go, then?”

“We have appeared, everything ran smoothly, and we allowed for some buffer time so there is no suspicion on us leaving. There is nothing left to be done, and I, for one, wish to be at home.”

“Then escort me out, Mr. Holmes,” Anthea said cheekily, and Mycroft did so gratefully. In the car, he said, “Make a note to remind me to speak to the security team.”

Anthea frowned, “Are you expecting trouble?”

“Personnel files were included in the hack,” Mycroft explained. “I’m hoping nothing will come of it, but I don’t want to be caught off guard.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh.

Anthea tapped out the note on her phone, “Done.”

“Thank you.”

When he got home, he changed for bed in the dark, shedding the pieces of his tuxedo one by one, happy to be rid of them. He folded them up to be cleaned, and then climbed into bed.

Gregory stirred as the mattress shifted, “You’re home?”

“Go back to sleep,” Mycroft murmured, his worry melting somewhat as he tucked himself under Gregory’s arm. “It’s very late.”

Gregory pulled him close, “Did you have fun?”

“No, but that was expected.”

“Kind of disappointed I don’t get to peel you out of that tux.” Gregory pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“That would not be an option even if I had arrived home at a reasonable hour,” Mycroft reminded him.

“I know,” Gregory said. “Doesn’t stop me from imagining it.”

“Well, go back to sleep and dream about it then,” Mycroft said. He was far too tired to keep his eyes open a moment longer.

“Sounds like a plan,” Gregory’s voice softened as he spoke until it was almost silent on the last word; he had fallen back asleep. Mycroft quickly followed.

He did not wake up in the morning. Rather, it was passing one in the afternoon when he finally greeted the day. Gregory was to his left, still in his pajamas and sitting back against the headboard, his nose wrinkled as he squinted down at the folder propped open in his lap. Mycroft recognized it as a casefile from Scotland Yard. Gregory’s lips were moving silently as he read, and he didn’t seem aware yet that Mycroft was awake.

Mycroft resisted the urge to pluck the folder from Gregory’s hands and insist on being cuddled. Instead, he pushed himself up to rest on his hip, hand planted on the bed to keep himself upright. “Good morning, darling,” he murmured.

“Morning, love,” Gregory responded automatically, clearly still distracted.

Mycroft hesitated, “Is that pressing?”

“This?” Gregory closed the file, “Nah. It’s an older case. I’ve got to be in court later this week to testify. Just brushing up on the facts again so I don’t look like an idiot. Why? Did you want something?”

Mycroft wet his lips and cocked his head. It was a weekend and neither of them had anywhere to be. He stared at his boyfriend, and the fear from the night before, of losing the man who had come to mean so much to him, welled up inside him again. Mycroft forced it back down. He was here, Gregory was safe in their bed, and Mycroft was on an upswing: anxiety still gnawed at the back of his mind, but the major stressor was over and soon the residual stress would fade as well, just as soon as their agents finished sorting everything out. Mycroft gave Gregory a calculated smile, “Actually, I believe there is something I want.”

Gregory took one look at him and then dropped the folder on the nightstand. He slid down to lay next to Mycroft, tangling their legs together. Mycroft curled his fingers around the back of Gregory’s neck, smiling as he pulled the policeman into a long, lingering kiss. “Correct me if I’m mistaken,” he said against Gregory’s lips, “but I do believe you owe me something.”

“I think you’re right,” Gregory said. His fingers skated up Mycroft’s thigh and came to rest on his hip, his fingertips just barely brushing under Mycroft’s pajama top. He paused, “Right now? You sure?”

Mycroft understood the need for clarification. He really hadn’t been in a good enough place for sex for nearly two weeks, save for the night before. “I’m sure,” he said quietly. “The anxiety has mostly passed, for now. I’d like to enjoy your company before it rears up again.”

“Enjoy my company, huh?” Gregory grinned, rubbing his nose against Mycroft’s. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“There are other aspects of you that I also intend to enjoy, if you’d prefer I be more frank,” Mycroft teased back.

“You positive you’re in a good place?”

“Gregory, I assure you I am fine. As I said, the anxiety has abated. I’d even be up for some...shall we say...testing the waters, if you’re interested.”

Gregory nuzzled into his neck, pressing a kiss at the juncture where it met his shoulder. “Not going to argue with that,” he said. “What’d you have in mind?”

Mycroft placed his hand over where Gregory’s was resting on his hip and slid it back and under the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Gregory’s skin felt blazing hot against his own bare flesh, but it was a soothing sort of burn, a physical reminder that Gregory was here with him. Gregory’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and when Mycroft removed his hand Gregory’s fingers stroked tentatively over the back of Mycroft’s thigh. “Testing the waters?” he asked.

“I had a thought,” Mycroft explained. “I’d like to get used to the idea of less clothing between us. We’ve done similar things in the past, but I’m still not entirely comfortable with the idea. I’d like to push my boundaries a bit today. I feel I’m in a reasonably good place for it, emotionally, and I trust that you’ll stop if I become uncomfortable.” Here he paused, and waited for Gregory’s nod. When he got it, he added, more playfully, “I’d like you to remove my pajama bottoms. Under the blanket, of course.” Less clothing was fine, but he still didn’t want to be uncovered. It seemed a reasonable compromise. “I know my legs are particularly appealing to you. I’d like you to touch them.”

Gregory blinked, a bit stunned. His hand had tightened on Mycroft’s thigh. “Okay,” he managed. “How do you want to do this?”

“Like this is fine.”

There was a pause, and then Gregory shifted. His hand pulled out of Mycroft’s pajamas for a moment, and then it was back, pushing them down blindly under the comforter. Mycroft kicked them off his ankles, and Gregory’s hand slid back up slowly, stroking from Mycroft’s calf all the way up to his upper thigh, stopping just short of his arse. After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft scooted closer and hitched his leg up around Gregory’s hip, and Gregory leaned his forehead against Mycroft’s, “Anything in particular you want? I’m yours to command, love.”

It took Mycroft a moment to formulate an answer, what with Gregory’s fingers drawing distracting circles on his bare skin. “I’m not sure yet,” he finally managed. He hadn’t planned that far in advance. He carded his fingers through Gregory’s hair, and then added, “Kiss me, please?”

“As you wish,” Gregory teased, and he pulled Mycroft in for another slow kiss. His hand slowly stroked from Mycroft’s hip to his knee and back again, tracing patterns on his skin and keeping him tight to Gregory’s body, as if he couldn’t get enough contact. The kisses were just as slow, passionate but not rushed, with lots of swiping, exploring tongues and very little teeth. Gradually, Mycroft felt his cock harden in response, pressing against the silk of Gregory’s pajama bottoms. Gregory wasn’t in quite as bad a state; he was half-hard at most. Still, he didn’t seem in a rush to change that, and Mycroft was enjoying the leisurely kisses. Gregory’s lips were warm and his hands were surprisingly soft, although more calloused than Mycroft’s. He felt calm, a hazy warmth glowing in his chest as Gregory wrapped him up in gentle touches. When Mycroft finally broke a kiss to draw breath, the overwhelming sense of safety prompted him to murmur, “Would you be adverse to a change in position?

Gregory frowned, “What?”

Mycroft let his leg fall from Gregory’s hip, propping himself up on his elbow to better look at him. Gregory mirrored the pose. “A change in position,” Mycroft repeated. He flushed, realizing how awkward his words sounded, but he pressed on, “I think I’d like to be on my back.”

Gregory’s confusion morphed to surprise, and then concern, but before he could protest or ask if Mycroft was sure he wanted that, Mycroft interrupted, “I can’t say for sure I’ll enjoy it. But I did say pushing boundaries, and we’re only kissing right now. If I don’t like it, then we’ll go back to the other way.” He waited for Gregory’s response, eager to try but not wanting to go ahead with his boyfriend’s agreement.

After a moment, Gregory nodded, although he still looked unsure. Mycroft appreciated the hesitation for his sake, but in the moment it sometimes felt a little much. “Trust me,” he soothed, trying to put Gregory’s mind at ease.

“I did ask what you wanted,” Gregory said, and while the worry did not disappear from his face entirely, he smiled softly. Pleased, Mycroft shifted to lie on his back, the mattress moulding to his body pleasantly. Gregory hesitated, and Mycroft took the initiative and hooked one leg loosely around his hip again, drawing him closer, between Mycroft’s legs. Gregory’s hand slid up his thigh, the other planted on the pillow over Mycroft’s head to keep himself balanced. Mycroft gave himself a few seconds, waiting for the moment of panic, and when it didn’t come he wrapped the other leg around Gregory as well, tightening his grip and pulling his boyfriend gently down on top of him.

Most of Gregory’s weight still rested on his forearm as he dropped down low on his knees to accommodate Mycroft, but the pressure was more than enough for Mycroft to feel his boyfriend’s erection, now fully hard and insistent, pressing against him through Gregory’s pajamas. “You’re incredible, you know that?” Gregory asked. He didn’t give Mycroft time to respond, leaning down and capturing his lips again. Mycroft threaded his fingers through Gregory’s hair and kissed back enthusiastically. He could feel the tremble in Gregory’s body as he fought to keep himself in check, and Mycroft grinned against his lips and arched up to grind teasingly against him.

Gregory’s hand tightened a bit on Mycroft’s thigh, and then consciously relaxed. “I take it back,” he mumbled. “You’re a terror. Christ.”  He pulled away from Mycroft’s lips to kiss down his neck, and Mycroft stroked his hair and settled back, enjoying the sensation. Gregory sucked a hickey just above the collar of his pajama top, working the skin between his teeth and sucking hard, and a little thrill went through Mycroft’s body at the idea of being marked. For once, he didn’t mind being so passive in the encounter. It felt like all of Gregory’s attention was focused into making him feel good.

When he was done with the love bite, Gregory pulled away, looking down at his work with clear satisfaction. Then he shifted his hand on Mycroft’s thigh, moving it closer to Mycroft’s throbbing erection, although not quite touching it. “Want to do something about this?” he asked. It wasn’t a pushy question, just honest curiosity, although there was a bit of a strain in Gregory’s voice that told Mycroft the answer was pertinent to how soon Gregory asked to stop so he could take care of himself without frightening Mycroft.

Mycroft forced his brain back through the hazy pleasure to reality, trying to think practically about the question. For once in his life, he didn’t really want to make a decision; his brain and body were pleasantly relaxed and thrumming gently with arousal, and he was in Gregory’s very capable hands. “Did you want to do something?” he asked, pushing the decision towards Gregory cautiously.

His boyfriend looked mildly surprised at the surrender. “Nothing specific,” he said.

Mycroft hummed softly. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked how fuzzy his brain was; the sensations, while exquisite, made it difficult for him to think. He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so at ease with such a lack of brainpower. Finally, he said, “Pick something.”

Rather than have the intended effect, Gregory blinked and then pulled away so there was almost no contact between them. Mycroft grasped for the blanket, worried for a moment that he would be uncovered, and pulled it over his lap. Gregory’s voice was careful, “You’re just...handing me the reins?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Have I done something wrong?”

The question surprised Mycroft, and he frowned. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would you think-?”

Gregory raised his eyebrows, and Mycroft’s brain cleared enough to understand. “Oh,” he said quietly. “You think…”

“You’re being very...agreeable today,” Gregory said. “With anyone else, I’d think that was a good thing. But based on our track record…” He sighed, “I know I’m overthinking it, but I really don’t want to hurt you.”

Mycroft sat up, wrapping his arms around Gregory’s shoulders. He stretched out to rub his nose against Gregory’s cheek and bit his lip. His throat suddenly felt tight. “You’re not overthinking it,” he managed to say. “I didn’t consider how this might appear to you. I’m having a very good day, Gregory, but I didn’t realize that in this case, my very good days would look a lot like my very bad days.”

“You blacking out on me was really hard, love. Especially because you still seemed to want it, you know? If anything, it was like you wanted it more. And now you were starting to look kind of out of it and you were letting me drive, and I got nervous.” Gregory’s face pinched, and the guilt there startled Mycroft. “I ruined the mood. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft scratched his fingers through Gregory’s hair, “No.”

Gregory frowned, “No?”

“You were worried about me, Gregory. I refuse to see that as a bad thing.” He pressed a brief kiss to Gregory’s lips, and then said, “I don’t want you feeling guilty about it.”

“This was supposed to be about you-”

“And it still can be.”

“Yeah, I’m really not comfortable with the idea of having sex right now.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Mycroft said. He pulled away from Gregory, rooting around under the covers until he found his trousers. He slipped them back on, and then turned to his boyfriend, who still looked uneasy. “Gregory,” Mycroft said firmly. “It’s alright. I’m fine. Please stop looking at me like that.”

“It’s not like I can turn it off,” Gregory muttered.

Mycroft’s heart twisted. This was his fault. _It’s no one’s fault_ , he scolded himself. _These things happen._ “You’re right,” he said softly. Gregory looked at him, and Mycroft said, “Do you still want to do something for me, darling?” He used the pet name deliberately, as a reminder to Gregory that Mycroft wasn’t upset.

Gregory nodded.

Mycroft smiled at him, “Good. I’m going to go shower. I’d like you to make something to eat; whatever you like, but I want strawberries with it. I know we have some. When I come down, we’re going to eat breakfast in the screening room and watch a movie as a reward for how long this week has been. You are going to cuddle with me and hand-feed me strawberries and kiss me, and you are _not_ going to laugh at me because I know all the lines. That is what I want.”

“I can do that,” Gregory agreed.

Mycroft kissed his cheek, “I love you, my darling. I’ll see you downstairs.”

Breakfast (well, more lunch at that point in the day) turned out to be crepes. They were sprinkled with powdered sugar and decorated with strawberries. “Your French blood is showing,” Mycroft teased, and he was pleased when Gregory smiled at him without his earlier reserve. The moment to himself seemed to have given Gregory time to stop feeling guilty.

They curled up together on the screening room floor because it would have been too messy to eat on the sofa. As requested, when Mycroft finished his crepes Gregory hand-fed him strawberry slices. He pressed kisses all over Mycroft’s face, and when he captured Mycroft’s lips he tasted like powdered sugar. The movie ran in the background, but neither paid much attention to it. When it ended, Gregory asked, “Was that what you wanted?”

Mycroft kissed him again. “Very much so,” he responded. “It was perfect.”

“Good,” Gregory said. He hesitated, “Sorry again about earlier.”

Mycroft shook his head, “Don't apologise. It is ancient history now. You were concerned, and I cannot fault you for that, nor would I want to.”

“I still feel bad.”

“Not every time is going to be perfect, Gregory. These things happen. There will be other opportunities to have sex.”

“That's not why I feel bad,” Gregory said. “I mean, it is, a little bit, 'cause you actually felt safe enough to give me control, and that doesn't happen often, so it feels kind of bad not to make the most of it. But mostly I feel like I let you down.”

Mycroft frowned, “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Gregory rubbed the back of his neck, “I dunno, I just...I should have trusted you to know what you wanted.”

Mycroft took his hand and gripped it tightly, “Gregory. You did exactly what you should have done. You saw signs that you recognized, and you reacted accordingly.” He leaned against his boyfriend, “It’s not unreasonable to be hesitant to trust me in these matters. I have not been entirely reliable in the past. So please stop trying to feel guilty over it, darling.”

“Put it behind us,” Gregory murmured.

“Exactly,” Mycroft said. He pressed a chaste kiss to Gregory’s lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Eventually, Mycroft remembered there was something else he needed to tell Gregory about. He made a face, aware his boyfriend would probably resist the idea.

His expression didn’t go unnoticed by Gregory. “What?” he asked.

“I’m about to ask you for something,” Mycroft said carefully. “And when I do, I’d like you not to reject it outright.”

Gregory’s forehead tightened into a frown, and slowly he said, “Okay…”

“I want to put a security detail on you.”

“Absolutely not,” Gregory shook his head.

“You just said-”

“I’m a police officer, Mycroft. I don’t need a bunch of scary blokes with guns hovering over my shoulder while I’m trying to do my job.”

“Gregory, please just listen to me,” Mycroft said, feeling very tired all of a sudden. He took a deep breath, “Under ordinary circumstances, I would not be so insistent about this. I trust you, and I know that you can keep yourself safe. But these are not ordinary circumstances and I can’t...I can’t…” His voice broke and he tightened his jaw, swallowing back the ache in his throat that was a sure precursor to tears.

At the shift in tone, the anger faded from Gregory’s eyes, and he gathered Mycroft in his arms. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Mycroft toyed with the idea of telling him everything. If Gregory’s safety was compromised, he deserved to know about it. Finally, he said, “Certain information that my work has compiled was...obtained by less than savoury individuals.”

Gregory arched his eyebrows, “You got hacked.”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded. “Among the files lost was a great deal of personal information. Family members and the like of people...well, people like me.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Gregory’s face. “You think…”

“I’m worried that you will be targeted. When I’ve said before that my job is very dangerous, I was not joking. There are a great many people who would like to get revenge on me for a variety of reasons, and if they know about you then they may try to hurt you to get to me.”

“Why would they find out about me? I mean, why now? We’ve been dating for months.”

“And yet we have appeared in public together very little. There was no reason anyone should associate us beyond a possible connection through Sherlock, who I’ve long since given up trying to protect in this regard. He keeps giving my teams the slip. At any rate, if my file was one that got hacked, whoever accesses it will know about you.”

“Why?”

Mycroft paused, “Why what?”

“Why am I in your work file? What about me is in there?”

“I don’t know the extent of the information,” Mycroft admitted. “For all that Sherlock refers to me as ‘The British Government,’ I am not the highest official. There are...councils. We keep each other in check. It’s likely there has been surveillance, or else reports I am not aware of. But I do know that they have _something_ about you.” Mycroft bit his lip, and then admitted, “I listed you as one of the people to contact, should I be found…”

“Dead,” Gregory finished when Mycroft could not.

“Quite,” Mycroft said. He cleared his throat, “You’re second on the list for minor injuries that land me in the hospital, after Anthea, and you’re counted among my ‘next-of-kin’ in the other case. I updated it last month.”

Gregory was silent for a long moment, and Mycroft felt sure his heart was going to thunder through his chest. After a long while, Gregory said quietly, “Are you sure I’m in danger?”

“Very few things are sure in a case such as this,” Mycroft said. “We will attempt to patch the leaks, recover what we can and render the rest irrelevant. But it is likely that, given the nature of the information, that whoever has acquired it will act quickly, before it can lead back to them and be pre-emptively stopped. I cannot say for sure that you are at risk, Gregory, but I am not willing to take the chance that I am wrong.”

There was another silence, and then Gregory sighed. “I don’t want a Secret Service team following my every move,” he said pointedly.

Mycroft felt the corner of his lips quirk up as he recognized what Gregory meant. “We wouldn’t use the Secret Service,” he said. “I have...other sources.”

“Don’t care,” Gregory said. “I don’t want a bunch of people tailing me. I don’t know how much surveillance you normally do on me,” and here, Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, not willing to answer that unasked question, “but that’s all fine. You can keep an eye on me if it’ll make you feel better, but I don’t want more than one person actually following me, and I’d prefer it if I didn’t see them at all.”

“Our agents are very discreet,” Mycroft assured him. He kissed Gregory’s cheek, “Thank you.”

“I’m not happy about it,” he said, “but I don’t need you panicking on me because I missed a call or couldn’t text back for a while. It’s not forever, right?”

“Just a few weeks,” Mycroft confirmed. “By then, this all should have settled down.”

“And then the next crisis will rise up,” Gregory sighed, but he smiled too. “‘S what I get for falling in love with a Holmes.”

“To be fair, at least I’m not the one actively seeking out danger.”

Gregory shuddered, “Now I’m thinking about dating Sherlock and _Christ_. Don’t know how John does it. That’s gotta be a nightmare.”

“Doctor Watson has little to no sense of self-preservation and a taste for adventure,” Mycroft said. “He also has a strict moral code and an incredible ability to know what to budge on and where to stand firm. Before him, I hadn’t thought anyone could tame Sherlock. For a good long while, I was sure he was making him worse. But that’s just how it is with Sherlock; it always looks worse before it gets better.”

“All things considered,” Gregory said, tightening his arms around Mycroft, “I really prefer the other Holmes brother.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Gregory grinned. “He’s definitely the clever one, he’s all posh and refined, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Incredible kisser, too, amazing at it, really.”

“Well then,” Mycroft leaned in close, hovering an inch away from Gregory’s lips. “Perhaps you should take advantage of the fact that he is here with you, and now all he can think about is kissing you again.”

“Maybe I should,” Gregory murmured. “It’d be rude to tease him like that.”

“It really would,” Mycroft agreed. He pressed his lips to Gregory’s to keep from laughing, and his boyfriend smiled into the kiss and pulled Mycroft tighter to his chest.


	4. Each and Every Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's fear turns out to be completely justified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tinkered with this chapter a lot before I was even close to happy with it. Sorry guys, I'm not great at action scenes. Hope it turned out okay. I'm pretty sure you all saw this coming.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

“Love, I’m pretty sure I told you I didn’t want to see the guy you’ve got tailing me.”

Mycroft glanced up as Gregory rounded the couch, dropping down next to him and greeting him with a kiss. When they parted, Mycroft said, “I told him to keep his distance. If he’s not doing his job correctly, then I may have to speak to him.”

“Is that code for firing him?”

Mycroft didn’t respond, and Gregory nodded, “Right.” He looped his arm around Mycroft, “Don’t fire him, okay? I’m just being...irritable. Ignore me.” He rested his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Is my agent what’s bothering you, or is it something else?”

“Work’s been rough,” Gregory admitted. “We got called in for a weird one on Monday, and we can’t make heads or tails of it. Sherlock’s been lurking, trying to get me to give it to him, but I don’t want to turn it over just yet. Plus, Mum called asking if we were going to come ‘round for a visit sometime this summer and when I told her I didn’t know she lectured me for another hour about working too hard and the importance of taking time off. Seeing your agent just got me worrying about your work stuff, kind of the proverbial last straw, you know?”

“I’ll tell him to be more discreet,” Mycroft said. He scratched his fingers through Gregory’s hair, “I’m sorry you’ve been having such a rough week, my darling.”

Gregory laughed, “All things considered, your rough weeks are generally worse than me whining a little about stupid stuff.”

Mycroft frowned, “You are entitled to have bad days, Gregory. Comparing them to mine benefits no one.”

“Nice to know you don’t want to play the suffering Olympics with me,” Gregory murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a tiny grin. “Just get that work thing sorted, okay? We’ll both be a lot happier when I don’t need a guy with a gun following my every move.”

“I’m certainly endeavouring to.” Mycroft hesitated, and then said, “I’m rather hoping it clears up in the next few weeks. I believe I promised an opportunity to show you off, and there’s a charity ball on the second weekend in June that I attend every year. It isn’t work related. Ordinarily, I would bring Anthea, but if you’d like to come instead...?”

Gregory beamed at him, “You asking me to be your arm candy?”

“If that is how you’d like to put it, yes,” Mycroft returned the smile affectionately.

“Then I’d love to.” Gregory pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips, and Mycroft curled his fingers around the back of Gregory’s neck, preventing him from going far.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured, “I shall have to bring you in to see my tailor before then.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, already imagining the options. Black was standard, but a midnight blue would suit Gregory so well. “I can’t show you off if you aren’t properly attired.”

“You just want to dress me up.”

“Guilty as charged, Detective Inspector.”

“As long as it means I get to see you in a tux again, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Promises, promises.” Mycroft smirked, and Gregory leaned in to steal another kiss.

***

“So how long have you two been together?” Greg asked. He tried not to squirm in his chair, but the outdoor seating at the cafe Anthea had suggested was more uncomfortable than any restaurant Greg had ever been in. He was definitely choosing where they met next time.

Anthea pursed her lips, thinking back. “We started dating about four years ago, I think? And then we got engaged this year, right around Christmas. She took me ice skating. Got down on one knee, popped the question, and promptly got knocked over by some flailing kid. I almost couldn’t say yes, I was laughing so hard.”

Greg smiled into his cup of coffee. “What did Mycroft do when you first started dating her?”

“Actually, Mycroft was the one who set us up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Anthea nodded. “Dropped a file on her on my desk one day, completely out of the blue. Had already done the background checks and everything. Said he’d noticed her at the florist shop next to his tailor’s, thought she might be my type.”

“Wow.” Greg sat back. “Matchmaking Mycroft. Never would have guessed.”

“Well, if I’m not much mistaken it was around the time you and your wife were starting to get divorced. Mycroft needed a lot of distractions. He really had it bad for you.” She smirked.

“Yeah, well, I had it pretty bad for him,” Greg said. “Honestly, there were loads of times I felt guilty after I met him, because I kept wishing I weren’t married so I could ask him out.”

“But you were already having trouble with your wife at that point, right? It’s not like meeting Mycroft started your problems.”

“Yeah.” Greg sighed, setting his cup down. “Maybe let’s not talk about my ex-wife right now?”

“Sure,” Anthea agreed.

Greg shaded his eyes against the glaring noon sun, looking across the street to where what he was pretty sure was the same black sedan from the day before was parked. He gestured at it, “That one of your guys?”

Anthea glanced at it, “I sincerely hope not. We’re generally a bit better about being discreet.” She reached for her phone, frowning, “How long has it been there? Maybe I should call-”

Before she finished her sentence, a bald man got into the car and it pulled away from the kerb. Anthea relaxed, “Probably nothing. I’ll make a note of it, but not every black car belongs to a government agent or a criminal.”

“True,” Greg agreed, although doubt still niggled at the back of his mind. He shook it off, “So. Tell me more about Stella.”

“Well, she’s French, for one thing.”

***

“You’re coming from therapy, aren’t you?”

Mycroft sighed, “I fail to see how that is relevant, brother mine.”

Sherlock crossed his legs, steepling his fingers and surveying Mycroft from across the room, “Have a nice chat?”

“If you’re going to be impertinent, I can come back later.”

“No, stay,” Sherlock said, waving a hand. “John will be home soon with Rosie. You can say hi. Now, I’m assuming this isn’t purely a social call?”

“No, it is not,” Mycroft said. “It’s about Eurus.”

Sherlock sat up straight, “What about her?”

“I’ve spoken with the proper people, and your...plan has been approved. A helicopter is being requisitioned to pick you up next Wednesday, assuming you are available. If not, I can ask them to reschedule.”

“Wednesday will be fine, thank you,” Sherlock said.

Downstairs, Mycroft heard the door open, and John called out, “Sherlock? I’m home.” He thundered up the stairs and drew to a halt on the landing, “Oh. Hey, Mycroft.”

“Hello, John,” Mycroft smiled politely.

In John’s arms, Rosie squirmed and reached out for him, “My!”

“Hello, Rosie,” Mycroft liberated her from her father. She bopped him on the nose, and he smiled affectionately. “You’re getting very big.” Inwardly, he cringed. Of course it would only take his niece, his perfectly ordinary niece to make him speak to babies the way dull, boring people did. He hoped it didn’t stick.

Sherlock rose to his feet, and John stretched up to plant a kiss on his lips, “How was your day?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Sherlock said. “Missing cat, a couple of affairs, and Lestrade _still_ won’t let me on his case, even though I _know_ I could solve it.” He levelled a glare at Mycroft.

“Don’t look at me, Sherlock,” Mycroft responded mildly. “I have no say in Gregory’s work life. You’ll just have to wait until he decides he needs you. In the meantime, I’d suggest you avoid skulking around his crime scenes. He was complaining about it last night.” He set Rosie on the floor, and she waddled slowly over to John. “As always, John, it is a pleasure.”

“Oh, by the way, when I was ‘lurking?’ I saw the car you’ve got tailing him. Really, Mycroft? Don’t you trust your partner?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft paused in the doorway. Over his shoulder, he said, “It is a safety precaution. One I would extend to you, if you didn’t insist on giving my team the slip every time I assign you one. Take care, Sherlock. Try not to bother Gregory too much.”

***

Greg tapped his foot, resisting the urge to slump against the probably filthy concrete wall, and listened to the phone ring out. Just when he was about to give up and send a text instead, the line crackled and Mycroft’s voice came through, “Gregory?”

“Hey, love,” Greg responded. “Sorry, this a bad time?”

“Not at all. Did you need something?”

“Actually, I just got off work,” Greg said. He glanced down the street, eyeing the not-so-well-hidden black sedan with annoyance. “I think your guy is scaring off the criminal classes.”

Mycroft chuckled, “Surely that is a good thing?”

“It would be if I weren’t in the middle of a case. The trail’s been cold for days now, and we can’t find any new leads. I finally gave in and stuck Sherlock on it, so hopefully that’ll help, but in the meantime I’ve got nothing to do.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“Well,” Greg amended, “that actually depends on how busy you are tonight. I know they’ve been running you ragged with this...work thing, but it’s been a few days so I thought things might be starting to die down a bit.” He glared at the car and considered giving it the two-finger salute. He decided against it, mainly because he knew Mycroft would be watching him from whatever cameras were picking him up at the moment, and he would surely comment on Greg’s childish behaviour.

“There is very little I can do sitting in the office right now. I would need to leave my phone on if I left, but I can’t imagine anything too pressing will come up. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking about taking you out,” Greg said. “Anthea said this great new Italian place just opened, and she was thinking about taking Stella. It’s been awhile since we went out to eat together, and you’re doing pretty well, so I thought we could make a double date of it. Or not, it could just be us.”

“You want to take me out to dinner?”

Greg ran his fingers through his hair, “Yeah. You up for that?”

“I believe I can manage. Should I meet you there, or will you be picking me up? It’s been a very long time since I was on a standard...date, so I’m not sure I recall the correct etiquette.”

The way he said the word ‘date’ made Greg laugh. “Love, we used to go out to eat all the time. It’s really not that different, except now, instead of pining and wishing we were on a date, I actually get to be dating you.” Well, that and Mycroft would actually be eating for a change.

“Would it reflect poorly on me if I admitted to wishing our outings together were dates as well?” Mycroft sounded sheepish.

“Nah,” Greg grinned. “Christ, we were a sorry pair. Sherlock should have gotten us together sooner.”

“I thought we weren’t going to credit my brother with our relationship?” Mycroft’s voice took on a touch of amusement.

“Only to his face,” Greg responded. “Look, if you don’t mind it being a double date, why don’t you get a ride with Anthea, and Stella and I can meet you at the restaurant?”

There was a pause, followed by the sound of papers shuffling. Then Mycroft asked dryly, “Have you and Anthea already arranged this? Because there appears to be a note in my calendar to leave this evening open.”

“Uh…we may have talked about it a bit yesterday, but I didn’t tell her to pencil it in or anything.”

Greg could almost hear Mycroft’s eye roll when he called out, “Anthea? Would you please come in here?”

“Yes sir?” Anthea’s voice was faint, but if he was quiet Greg could make it out.

“Next time you wish to schedule a double date with my boyfriend, perhaps you could run it by me before adding it to my calendar?”

“Sorry, sir.” Anthea didn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

Mycroft sighed and spoke directly into the phone, “I will see you there at about sevenish, Gregory?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Greg grinned. “Love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you soon, darling.” Mycroft hung up.

Still smiling to himself, Greg glanced down at what he was wearing. The restaurant wasn’t overly fancy, but it warranted better than a wrinkled, day-old shirt and slacks. At the very least, he’d need a tie. With that in mind, he headed home to change.

***

Mycroft drummed his fingers against the leather seats of the car, resisting the urge to pull out his phone. To his left, Anthea rolled her eyes, “It’s been five minutes, Mycroft. You don’t need to check the CCTV every second you’re apart from him.”

Mycroft clenched his fingers into a fist to stop the tapping. “I know,” he sighed. “Gregory will be fine without my supervision. I just find myself...worrying. We are cleaning up our mess as best we can, and I know he is perfectly capable of handling himself, but I still find myself fearing for his safety.” He glanced at Anthea, “How do you do it? You always seem so calm, even when you know Stella could be in danger. How do you keep it from overwhelming you?”

Anthea shrugged, “Just because I look calm doesn’t mean I am. And yeah, it scares the shit out of me sometimes. But Stella’s a big girl, and she knew what she was getting into when we started dating. If anything bad ever did happen to her, I would do anything to get her back, and I know you’d help. So I try not to worry too much.”

Mycroft nodded and looked out the window. The unease in his stomach didn’t settle at all, but Anthea’s words made it a bit easier to deal with. “You’re right,” he said softly.

“‘Course I’m right,” Anthea smirked. “I’m always right.”

The car pulled to a stop outside the restaurant. It appeared charming from the outside, with Corinthian columns clearly repurposed from whatever had been there before and large glass windows looking in on a room full of patrons glowing faintly in the pale yellow light. A sign with large cursive letters proudly displayed the name of the restaurant and proclaimed that they were open.

Mycroft adjusted his tie, smoothed down the front of his waistcoat, and stepped out of the car. A young woman in a knee-length floral skirt waited for them on the pavement, her long fingers toying idly with the strap of her purse. She lit up when she saw Anthea, and held out her arms to receive the hug that the shorter woman pulled her into. Anthea stretched up to kiss her fiancé’s lips and Stella smiled when they broke apart. “Hello to you too.”

“I missed you,” Anthea grinned.

“I can see that.” Stella wrapped an arm around Anthea’s shoulders and turned to Mycroft, “You’ve been keeping my lovely fiancé away from me.”

“I assure you that is not my intention,” Mycroft returned, “but she has a nasty habit of trying to look after me.”

“She’s a mother hen, alright,” Stella laughed. She let go of Anthea to kiss Mycroft on both cheeks, “It’s good to see you again.”

“It has been quite a while,” Mycroft agreed. “Too long, really.”

Stella waved it off, “You’ve been busy. And Anthea tells me you have a new boyfriend to keep you even busier. Am I meeting him tonight, then?”

Mycroft frowned, glancing around, “He should be here by now. Surely you’ve seen him.”

“I wouldn’t know what he looks like,” Stella said, “but there hasn’t been anyone out here but me for the past five minutes or so.”

Mycroft bit his lip. His fingers started a gentle tapping rhythm against his thigh. “Maybe he went inside?” Anthea suggested.

“You’re probably right,” Mycroft said. Still, the uneasy feeling in his stomach only grew stronger. He pulled out his phone and dialled his boyfriend’s number. Immediately, it went to voicemail. Mycroft frowned and tried again with the same result.

“What?” Anthea asked.

“He’s not answering his phone. It keeps going straight to voicemail.”

“Maybe his battery died?” Stella offered. “Or maybe he shut it off?”

“Gregory never shuts off his phone when he has an ongoing case,” Mycroft said, “and he stopped at home before he came here. He would have ensured it was charged.”

“It’s probably nothing, Mycroft,” Anthea said. “Just...let me call the office. You had a tail on him, right? Why don’t you call them?”

Mycroft nodded and dialled. Stella watched, not even pretending to give them privacy, as Anthea also made a call. Mycroft’s agent picked up on the second ring, “Sir?”

“Where are you?” Mycroft asked, not bothering to hide the bite in his voice. “I believe you are being paid to watch Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mycroft waited. When there was no response, he prompted, “Well?”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I lost him.”

Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath. Next to him, he heard Anthea snap, “I don’t care if the shift was turning over, someone is supposed to have an eye on the monitors at all times. That’s your _job_.”

Slowly, Mycroft said, “How exactly did you lose him? I believe I hired you as a professional.”

“Sir, it wasn’t my fault-”

“I don’t want an excuse,” Mycroft snapped. “I want an answer. Now!”

“There was a stoplight,” he stammered. “You told me to follow at a distance, so I did. I swear, he was only out of my sight for a second, but when I turned the corner he was gone!”

“And you didn’t contact me immediately because…?” Mycroft didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he hung up, sorely missing flip phones for their satisfying snap when you hung up on somebody, and growled to no one in particular, “Remind me to have him fired.”

Anthea looked grim. She lowered her phone, “Sir, we’ve got the surveillance footage. Do you...do you want to see it?”

“Have them send it to me.”

A few seconds later the video came through on his phone. Mycroft watched it, feeling numb. On his phone screen, Gregory came up in front of the restaurant, a black car pulled up to the kerb, a door opened and Gregory stepped closer, and then he was being dragged in and the car took off.

Mycroft swallowed hard, covering his mouth with his free hand as bile rose in his throat. His breath came in shallow bursts even as he fought to keep it steady. Panicking wouldn’t do any good. “Do we know who took him?” he managed to ask.

“Not yet, but they’re working on it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Fine. I just...it’s fine.” He suddenly felt weak, and staggered back against the car as his knees gave out.

Anthea caught him, “Mycroft, breathe for me, okay? Look at me. Deep breaths.”

Mycroft tried, but the air caught in his throat and he choked. Everything was spinning. He needed to sit down. He felt Anthea open the car door and guide him in, vaguely heard her say something to Stella, and then she climbed into the car after him. “Mycroft,” she said. “Hey. It’s going to be alright. We’re going to get him back.”

It took Mycroft several very long moments to process her words. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes. We’re going to get him back.”

***

“Okay,” Greg whispered to himself. “Not the first time you’ve been in this situation. This is fine.” He struggled against the ropes keeping his wrists tight to the chair, but he’d been unconscious when they’d tied him up. No chance to fight for a little wiggle room. They had his ankles secure too, and a thick strap bound his chest, so that if he leaned forward too far his lungs became uncomfortably tight. He licked his dry lips and tasted blood.

He’d arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, figuring Mycroft couldn’t be far behind. His boyfriend was nothing if not punctual, especially when shepherded by Anthea. After a minute of waiting, he’d pulled his phone out to check the time, which was when the black car had pulled up to the kerb. It looked exactly like one of Mycroft’s, complete with tinted windows. Greg had approached it, grinning and expecting to see his boyfriend. Instead, an unfriendly pair of hands reached out and yanked him inside, smashing Greg’s head against the roof of the car. His phone slipped out of his hand, and he heard the distinct sound of someone’s heel crunching glass into shards. He’d thrown a few good punches (and received a few in return) before a cloth had been shoved over his nose and mouth and everything faded to black.

He chuckled weakly and muttered, “Told him I was going to get kidnapped because of those stupid black-”

“Care to share with the class?”

Greg straightened up, cutting his muttering off abruptly. Of all the cliché places to take a kidnapping victim, he’d been brought to a dingy warehouse. The dim lights flickered, outlining a man who looked every bit an action-movie villain as he strode across the floor in thick, metal-tipped boots. It was the bald man he had noticed at the cafe the day before, and Greg cursed himself for not trusting his instincts. A black jacket stretched tight across the man’s well-muscled chest and Greg could clearly see the outline of a gun under the waistband of his pants. He was flanked by a pair of expressionless men, both with their own guns drawn, and all three were wearing dark sunglasses.

“Really?” Greg sighed. “Bad enough you kidnap me, but d’you really have to go through all the clichés too? Sunglasses at night? _Really_?” He was proud when his voice didn’t waver. He’d trained for these types of situations. All he needed to do was keep calm and someone would come for him. Mycroft had to have noticed he was missing by now.

The men ignored Greg’s jab. Instead, the one in the lead removed his glasses, tucking them into the collar of his shirt, “If you’re smart, copper, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“Huh,” Greg said. “Well, I never was the brightest, so sorry if I don’t take your advice.”

“You sure this is him?” one of the men asked.

“Course I’m sure,” the first snapped.

“He seems a bit of...I dunno, a bit of a chav. Not what I’d expect for such a posh git.”

Yeah, this definitely had to do with Mycroft. “Oi,” Greg said, offended. “Who’re you callin’ a chav?” Although it really didn’t help his argument when his cockney accent came out a little thicker than usual.

It didn’t matter, because he was ignored. “I’ve been watching him, and I’m telling you, this is our guy,” the bald one insisted, glaring at his companion. He turned the look on Greg, “Prissy boys like Holmes like a bit of rough behind closed doors. Probably picked him up off the street somewhere.” He spat in Greg’s face.

Greg wrinkled his nose, anger flaring up, “Oh, like you did just now?” He tugged fruitlessly against the ropes again.

The man considered him for a moment, and then abruptly brought his hand back and connected a punch squarely with Greg’s cheek, sending him reeling sideways, his lungs screaming as the band pulled tight around his chest. Greg coughed, fighting for breath, as his chair was righted. The bald man squatted in front of him, “Listen real good: right now, we need you alive. But you best keep your smart mouth shut, because alive don’t mean all in one piece, understand?”

“Go to hell,” Greg snarled.

His captor drew back and then punched him again.

***

“It looks like they’ve been following him all day,” Anthea said, squinting at the frozen image on the monitor. Mycroft kept his arms folded, leaning against the wall to hide the fact that he felt close to falling over again. She turned to the agent who had been tailing Gregory, “How the hell did you not notice these guys?”

“I...I th-thought it was one of ours,” he stammered. “In broad daylight, being so obvious, I couldn’t imagine-”

“I don’t have time for your incompetence,” Mycroft snarled. “Anthea?”

She nodded and narrowed her eyes at the agent, “Your employment is terminated, effective immediately. We will deal with the details _after_ your mess has been cleaned up.”

“Ye-yes ma’am.” The agent fled.

Anthea turned back to Mycroft, her face softening, “Sir?”

Mycroft refocused on the monitors, where a cluster of people were trying to track the car that had taken Gregory. “Have we identified the people who took him?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Anthea said. “Could be they’ve been hired by someone else we know, but they don’t register in any of our databases.”

“Then they are either amateurs or very, very good.” Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella, squeezing hard enough that his knuckles turned pale white, then red.

Anthea leaned forward a little further, “Hang on. I think I recognize the car.”

“What?”

“Shit.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Greg noticed these guys when we were getting coffee yesterday, but then they left so I didn’t think anything of it.” She looked at Mycroft, horrified, “I reported it, but I didn’t think to follow through-”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said sharply. “It’s not your job-”

“No, but I should have-”

“Anthea.” Mycroft hadn’t noticed it either, even though he had watched portions of the footage. He had dismissed it as too obvious, like everyone else had. Stupid. He couldn’t allow Anthea to blame herself for something even he, for all his supposed genius, had missed.

At his tone, she stopped protesting. Mycroft let out a shuddering breath, and Anthea put her hand gently on his arm. “We’ll fix this. We’ll find him.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, because the alternative was not an option. “And then we are going to make them wish they had never been born.”

***

Greg coughed and spat out another mouthful of blood. “Is that really...all you’ve got?” he wheezed. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought one of his ribs might be broken.

The bald man idly wiped his hands on a towel and passed it off to one of his sour-faced henchmen. A few more had appeared, all still wearing sunglasses. Greg might have laughed if he didn’t feel close to crying. “I’m not going to ask again,” the bald man said smoothly. “You’re going to tell us what we want to know about Mycroft Holmes, or you’re going to find me much less tolerant than I’ve been so far.”

Greg choked out a humourless laugh, “You...you really think Mycroft tells me anything? He’s not stupid, and he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you lot. He wouldn’t compromise his position for anything or anyone.”

The bald man pursed his lips, nodding as if in agreement, and then, with a flick of his wrist, someone behind Greg pressed a gun to his temple. He wanted to tilt his head away from the cold metal as the blood started to roar in his ears, his heart surging into overdrive as panic threatened to overtake him, but he held firm, staring his opponent down. “Thought you needed me alive?”

“Well,” the bald man said, “that was when we thought you might have something to tell us. Now, though? Now you’ll make a nice present to leave on Mycroft Holmes’s doorstep.” He nodded sharply, and Greg heard the hammer cock.

***

“Got him,” Anthea said, leaning forward over the analyst’s shoulder. “We need agents dispatched to-”

“I’m going.”

Anthea took one look at Mycroft’s expression and nodded, “Of course, sir.”

***

“What?” the bald man asked. “Nothing smart to say now?”

Greg clenched his teeth and glared, unable to stop from wincing as pain shot through his jaw. The bald man smirked, “I thought so.” He gestured towards the man holding the gun to Greg’s head.

Greg shut his eyes.

A surprisingly quiet bang went off and a spray of something wet splattered against Greg’s cheek.

He opened his eyes again.

“Find out where that came from!” the bald man snarled at his men, who were staring around wildly, trying to locate the source of the shot. Greg twisted as best he could, looking over his shoulder to see a man splayed out, a neat hole in his forehead.

He looked back at the bald man and smirked, “Looks like your time’s up.”

The bald man drew his own gun and pressed it to Greg’s forehead. “I could still kill you right now.”

“I’d strongly recommend reconsidering that course of action.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. Mycroft. The bald man turned, his gun still against Greg’s head, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow and glanced briefly at the dead man on the floor. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that several guns were trained on him. “Well,” he said, remarkably casually, swinging his umbrella lightly, “ _I’m_ not going to do anything. My agents, on the other hand…” He made a brief gesture behind him, and suddenly a series of gunshots rang out. The bald man’s henchmen collapsed to the floor. Mycroft advanced another few steps, “If you would be so kind as to remove the gun from the Detective Inspector, we might even be kind enough to take you alive.”

“You can’t kill me,” the bald man snarled. “There are more of us out there, watching, waiting. Kill me, and they’ll come for him.”

Mycroft paused in front of him, close enough that Greg could see how eerily blank Mycroft’s expression was. He looked almost...bored, and it sent a chill down Greg’s spine. Mycroft pursed his lips like he was considering something, and then nodded, “You’re probably right. Pity.” In one fluid motion, he twisted the handle of his umbrella free and fired.

“Shit!” Greg jumped. The bald man staggered back, gun clattering to the floor, clutching at his chest. A team dressed all in black swarmed in, handcuffing him and shoving a bag over his head before dragging him out.

“Messy, but he’ll live,” Mycroft murmured. He carefully reattached the handle of his umbrella and then turned to look at Greg, whose mouth was stilling hanging open.

He shut it quickly. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft sank to his knees on the filthy warehouse floor and the emotionless facade fell away, replaced by worry and relief, “Are you hurt? Gregory, please tell me you’re alright.”

“You’re going to ruin your suit,” Greg said numbly. The shock of nearly getting shot was starting to catch up with him. His chest suddenly felt a bit tight, and not from the bindings.

“Suits can be replaced. You, my darling, cannot.” Mycroft gently wiped away the smear of blood from Greg’s cheek. “Gregory? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Greg said, and then winced. “Okay, not fine, but I’ll live. They roughed me up a bit before you got here.”

Mycroft carefully undid the restraints, and the moment Greg had his arms free he pulled his boyfriend to his chest. “Thank you for coming for me.”

“Never a question,” Mycroft murmured back, squeezing Greg just as tightly. He pulled away carefully, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it around Greg’s shoulders.

Greg let him, clutching it gratefully. He felt a little dizzy. “I thought you didn’t do legwork?” he said.

“You are, as always, my exception to the rule.”

“Me and Sherlock?”

Mycroft laughed, “Indeed. You and Sherlock. Do you think you can stand? There should be a medic outside. I’d like them to take a look at you.”

Greg gingerly stood up, took a step, and stumbled. Mycroft caught him and began to lead him out slowly. “You got me pretty fast,” Greg said. “What was that, a couple hours?”

“You were a top priority.”

“Well, dating the British government has its perks,” Greg grinned. “Sorry I ruined date night.”

“No doubt Anthea will ensure you make it up to her,” Mycroft said dryly.

“You bet I will,” Anthea greeted them as they exited the warehouse. “You look like shit, Greg.”

“And you look gorgeous as always, Anthea,” Greg said. “Tell Stella I’ll be glad to meet her some other time, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“And next time I think I see a suspicious car, why don’t we call it in, okay?”

Anthea gave him a tiny, guilty smile, “Okay.”

“Not blaming you,” he said. “Just…next time.”

“Ideally, there won’t be a next time,” Mycroft said.

Greg glanced at his boyfriend, and then stage whispered to Anthea, “Is he always so fucking scary at work?”

Anthea laughed, “Only when he’s not doing paperwork. And even then, sometimes.”

“I’m right here, you know.”

“And I just got kidnapped,” Greg said. “I think that earns me some leeway.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Anthea? Ensure this mess is cleaned up. I need to have my ridiculous boyfriend examined for head injuries.”

“Of course, sir.” Anthea bit her lip to keep from smiling and marched into the warehouse.

Mycroft hovered the entire time the medic was checking Greg over. Finally, she said, “His ribs are a little bruised, so he shouldn’t do anything strenuous for a week or two. Otherwise, once the bruises fade away, he should be fine. For tonight, just keep him warm, keep him hydrated, and make sure he gets plenty of rest.”

“Told you I’m fine,” Greg said stubbornly.

“Yes, dear, I know,” Mycroft said.

“You don’t have to sound so patronizing.”

“Was I?” Mycroft feigned surprise. He cupped Greg’s cheek gently and pressed a very soft kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Greg grinned.

“No, I’m not,” Mycroft agreed.

“So who were those guys?” Greg asked.

“We aren’t sure yet, but if I am correct, then the man we brought in is their leader and will be able to give us an idea.”

“So you didn’t recognize him?”

“No. He isn’t anywhere in our databases, and no one seems to know who he is. But sooner or later, we will find out, and then the responsible parties will be dealt with...appropriately.” Mycroft’s jaw set in a hard line.

“Hey.” Greg pulled Mycroft down to sit next to him, lacing their fingers together. “I love you.”

Mycroft sighed and squeezed Greg’s hand tightly. “I love you too.”

“You know it’s not your fault, right?”

Mycroft frowned at him, “What do you mean?”

“Me getting kidnapped. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Gregory-”

“I don’t want you feeling guilty about this, Mycroft.” Greg said seriously. “Yes, your job is dangerous, and yes, the guy who took me wanted something from you, but that doesn’t make this your fault. The _only_ blame is on the guy who kidnapped me. And maybe a tiny bit on me, because I assumed that every strange black car in London is one of yours.” The joke fell flat, and Mycroft shuddered a bit against Greg’s side. Greg gripped his hand harder, “Mycroft. You got me back. You told me that if anyone ever took me away from you, you’d move heaven and earth to bring me home, and you did. I was only gone a couple hours, even.”

“He hurt you,” Mycroft whispered.

“And in a minute I’ll probably be a mess over that, but while I’m still conscious and not panicking, I need you to know that it’s not your fault.”

“Come on,” Mycroft said, clearly avoiding the question. “Why don’t we go home?”

Greg wanted to push the issue, but his head really was starting to feel fuzzy, so he didn’t put up a fight and allowed Mycroft to guide him to the car.

“By the way,” he said when they were about halfway there, “exactly how long has your umbrella been a gun?”

***

Mycroft hesitated in the bedroom doorway, staring at his boyfriend curled up under the covers. His fingers tightened around the doorframe as his heart tugged painfully in his chest. He had come so close to losing Gregory today, so close to never seeing his bright smile or hearing his laugh again.

“You gonna stand there all night, or you gonna come keep me warm?” Gregory’s voice was slightly slurred, blurry with exhaustion but still surprisingly suggestive.

Mycroft smiled. He sat down on the bed next to his boyfriend and coaxed him into a sitting position, handing him a glass of water. “Drink this, and then you can sleep.”

Gregory took a gulp, wincing and pressing his hand against his ribs, “Can’t believe I have to be out of work all week. Normally, I’d love a vacation, but it’s gonna be really boring sitting around here all day without you.”

“Actually, Anthea has already begun rearranging my schedule so that I can spend most of the week working from home.” Mycroft took the empty glass from Gregory, set it gently on the nightstand, and helped his boyfriend lay back down. He climbed under the blankets with him, and Gregory snuggled into his embrace.

“So you’re gonna be taking care of me for a change?” he asked.

“I’m certainly going to do my best,” Mycroft said.

Gregory was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “You scared me today. Walking in there, looking so...I dunno, blank I guess...It scared me.”

“I did not mean to frighten you.” Mycroft sighed. “Emotional detachment is a requirement of the job. If I had my way, you would never have seen me at work. Field work in particular is…” Mycroft searched for a word, and even with his massive vocabulary, came up short.

But Gregory seemed to understand what he meant. “You’re not the Iceman, Mycroft,” he said softly. “You can pretend to be cold and unfeeling all you want, but at the end of the day, when you come home to me, I can see that you feel _so_ much.”

“And that is one of the many things I love about you,” Mycroft murmured. “Now go to sleep, Gregory. You’ve had a very exciting evening, and you need your rest.”

“Doctor said keep me warm,” Gregory mumbled. Mycroft didn’t have to see it to know Gregory had his devilish, lopsided grin. “Some people would take advantage of that.”

“I think we both know I am not one of those people,” Mycroft responded. Then he amended, “Today, anyway. Sleep, Gregory.”

Gregory made a happy humming noise that sounded almost like laughter. It faded out into a sigh, and then a soft snore. Mycroft smiled fondly at his sleeping boyfriend, and then pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Goodnight, Gregory,” he whispered, and turned out the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of an experiment in POV shift. Hope it wasn't too awkward. That's it for this installation: up next we've got some aftermath of this chapter and a moderately less angsty June for our boys. Stay tuned, and I love you guys so much for sticking with me.


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